That place where we ran through fields
Until the last slivers of the
Sunset filtered through
Tapering off the end of the world
And our only light was from the
Quiet, humble buzz of lightning bugs

That place where nostalgia danced
And sang on old, wooden porches.
And lullabies sweetened our ears and hearts,
Tucking us in underneath the feathery covers,
Holding us until we drifted gently to sleep.
We were carefree and liberated,
Free from the clutches of stress and want.

That place where nothing was tangled,
Except dirty shoelaces or red vines
Which inspired giggles and
Light competitions for unknotting.
When we used to play cowboys and Indians
Stampeding and whooping shrieks of joy,
Or build gloriously lopsided forts
Against an impending blizzard.

That place where we dressed in all white
Just to see who could get the most grass stains,
Green and friendly, acknowledging our
Hours outside, and smiling in
Imagination's encouragement.
That place where love was love,
And not some jumble of flattened words
Awkward, complicated, and compressed.

That place that existed
Only in our quiet dreams,
Now blurred out by the stench of alcohol.
Slowly, painfully erased by the cocktail of drugs.
Until the only traces of it
Slide into obscurity,
In our honest, blinding tears.