Syrup

Soon, we'll be old and sour and grey,
Looking back at today, thinking those were the days,
Where dawns and dusks spilled into each other like syrup.
At sunrise we slept and at sundown we wept,
And all in between we filled our days with nonsense.
Soon, we'll forage our memories and become so
Overwhelmed with nostalgia that we will have to
Caress our stomachs and sit in a chair with armrests,
And life will play itself out once more, like a movie,
In fragments of memories, sensations, delusions,
Of days where we felt so ashamed that we crawled
Into ourselves and, like pathetic snails, we waited for life to pass us.
Of days where we felt so alive that we risked
Our pride and respect in exchange for a glass of beer.
Of days where we were so miserably defeated
That we cried to rock songs and wondered how it would be
To see someone else in the mirror for a change.
Little fragments, little things, will flash like fireworks.
Then every thing, every dew drop on every rose petal
That we have ever seen, and every kiss that has been
Planted on the bodies that we inhabit, will dissipate
Into oblivion. The scars, the sensations, the delusions
Will spill into each other like syrup,
And they will melt with the rising sun.