Feet swinging gently, from

side to side.

Lips frosted with the sweet tang

of Mom's ice-cold lemonade.

With the crisp summer breeze,

drifts innocence.

A forgotten flavor of the past

dances on the tip of my tongue,

inviting me to simply press rewind

and begin to relive.

Our ghosts sailing down the pavement,

bike pedals pumped gently.

Blind to the silent thief edging itself closer,

who swallows us whole.

Still unaware.

We swing together now,

eyes fixed on the smoldering concrete.

The joy from cycling down and back,

faded, stolen that night.

Bridge to the past

built from bittersweet bricks,

painted with a layer of remorse.

Locked into wooden floors and steps,

the porch.