I spent days in lecture and nights in texture of the oils and acrylics, of your lost love of architecture.
A blast from the past and vulnerability smashed from the days of stubborn rage from the days of our drastic contrast.
Your hug was a memento and I don't what to think of the echo.
I'd be a fool to admit what we both knew: that I always missed you.
the sound of my dad’s guitar playing his favorite chords the typing of my mom’s fingers going through family records the smell of the ceramics studio full of the kiln, dust and glaze the running home
it’s the little things they always say like how you listen more than you ever have before or how you stopped opening my car door like how you squeeze me tighter in our hugs or how you don’t answer me
I cant remember the last photo i took maybe it was a mountain maybe my niece maybe myself maybe you looking away no matter what it was it’s the last thing my lense has seen which means it means everyt