(no subject)
Do you remember the raspberry patches that we scoured when we were children? Every summer, they would flourish under the reign of the northern latitude sun, and bespeckle the forest with red. The plump, delicious denizens were happy to indulge their patrons with the payment of potential reproduction. And yet, they strictly punished the vices of overindulgence, leaving us sanguine and beleaguered. When sun stretched into the far corner of the sky, I saw the light reflected in your eyes and wondered whether you could see it reflected within mine. The fading light brought the forest repose, and we separated into the dusk. Was it love, in the raspberry patches? We absconded into them, laughing, dancing, crying, fighting, and maturing. They witnessed our changes and remained our silent caregivers. I witnessed your evolution in the patches, mesmerized and mournful. One year, we simply stopped.
Were we finally subdued by adulthood, or the raspberry patches by suburbia? Do you still think of them, too?
Were we finally subdued by adulthood, or the raspberry patches by suburbia? Do you still think of them, too?