The aches and pains don't live in our bones anymore and I proved it too many times.Pushing my steady breathing to the side just so the people shrouded in metaphors could work their way into the back of my throat.A d at the start,he wasn't any different. While most people collected kisses.we collected dirt underneath our finger nails,still managing to outlast all of their lip-burnt triumphs.Stretched out like two kids on hot pavement, we never tried to count the stars,we let the buzz in our backs fade into cement, realizing from a young age that rain drops were much easier to catch in the backs of our mouths. Even then we all hit the floor at some point,and whether it was our feet or our hands swelling with the purple and black spots didn't say much.His voice had always caught on the last syllable in my name, but nothing could explain why I was soon catching on the wind more often than his tongue.
"It's wasn't a surprise when we grew out of the metaphors faster than the shoes on our feet"
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Ephemera
Poetrye·phem·er·a əˈfem(ə)rə/ noun things that exist or are used or enjoyed for only a short time. items of collectible memorabilia, typically written or printed ones, that were originally expected to have only short-term usefulness or popularity.
