soft

it isn’t growing soft as the years continue the tally the odometer reaches towards the upper limits of spatial awareness

when i was a kid i got a bicycle and we put a thousand miles on it over the stretch of one summer filled with reckless abandon

now as i get old and the distance from summer days to winter nights spent reading becomes equatable in light years

this is the autumn of my days wasted barely living barely writing barely subsisting in a world that only takes

it isn’t growing soft as the once hardy bits become ravaged with spots to become mealy memories of the one i was long before

now i write every minute i can pull coherence from the song that endlessly rattles around the empty belfries of my mind

but i still remember that bike and all the rides with no clue that one day it would be just the whisper of the breeze in my ears

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