these are not memories, my love. these are crushed petals of dried rose infused with a thousand million rays of sun and precisely three hundred and sixty five specks of happiness.
these are the remnants of lost hopes transformed into more hopes, gathered into waiting arms, fractured by time and yet healed by longing.
these are not memories, my love. these are broken dreams mended by coils of unravelled cassette tape tangled with tears and the splash of thunderous rain mixed with the scent of damp soil.
these are grasses swishing across vast yellow fields of grain, whispering a melody of belonging and truth.
these are not memories, my love. these are jagged rocks beaten by timeless waves, morphed into caves in which laughter dwells and screams echo.
these are the soft thud of footsteps against wood, vibrating across sixteen springs, summers, winters and falls.
these are not memories, my love. these are the embers glowing around dying fires, paling in warmth to the soft glow of lanterns hanging from bent tree branches.
these are the cold pebbles along riversides holding to themselves tales of tremendous travels, tumultuous waters of waning temperatures, and merciless winds of the north.
these are not memories, my love.