and get soft around the edges,
like a late autumn day,
with a hint of wood smoke on the air.
waiting for my youth to reappear.
I am young again,
and there is nothing left to worry about,
because there was nothing to worry about,
other then what we were going to do with ourselves.
nothing better then wishful thinking,
and thoughts of a better life.
who would believe it.
we did, because there was nothing else left to do,
but believe in the impossible,
simple because we did not know any better.
and some things are better left as a memory.