do you remember those golden days?
the days where we'd sit around under the stars, watching falling stars?
oh, those where the days.
but now it's just history in some high school class stuck in between ancient pages with adolescent drool and scribbles covering the beauty.
now that you're gone, we're a dull story kids laugh about over the thrill of a first smoke, a sip of forbidden alcohol.
we're nothing.
YOU ARE READING
Painting Butterflies
Poetry❝how i wish to be free like a spring butterfly❞ a collection of what-nots and distant memories. (c) Farah. 2013.
