The frigid window fogs with my hung-over morning sigh.
I look out at my backyard soccer goal like I've done many times before.
The sun, it rises a little higher as I'm caught up in a memory.
The field is covered in snow. It is true winder does symbolize death.

A taste of regret fills my mouth, what we could've done, could've been
Its not last nights activities but the remorse that unsettles my stomach.
I remember that one night, the specific night we decided we couldn't be a team.
Growing up tore us apart, season after season we were always a little different.

The team mates are leaping, cheering triumphantly,
A glow surrounds us, my good friends and teammates.
It is a dead tie and we score the winning goal of our last game together.
We hug; nobody knew it was the end of an era.

The field is still the same, and the sport hasn't changed, we did.
Our team is absent from the rosters, but people remember us.
Other opponents run into us on the streets, softly asking how the team is.
Treating it as a deceased loved one, it's been a year, and they've missed the funeral.

Most of us don't talk, or even see each other anymore.
It's not the snow, but the ice surrounding our hearts.
But we all keep the uniform, like Spartans we will remain at heart.
The memories, unlike the window will never fog.