We lost the moon in the war. No one remembers the name of the war. Kids spray-paint the nicknames of the moon. Only they know its whereabouts. Rivers are an expression of gravity. Spines too.
The paperwork, we burned it. I thought we should save it. But you said we should write it down afterwards how we remember it.
There is so much strangeness to this day. Like asking clouds not to comb their hair into astronauts, it can’t be done. Butterflies drink the same wine as volcanoes.
We met again, years later. To sort out what we remember. It was mostly poetry.
naïve haircuts 
Your writing gives me those sweet smiles of having just experienced something profound and serene.
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absolutely beautiful and like K.F. Hartless says “experienced something profound and serene.” that kids only know its whereabouts kicked me in the gut, a reminder that the adult mind is so different than a kid’s and some lucky bastards never lost that being a kid on a playground feeling…..the way you describe strangeness belongs in a dictionary or better yet, engraved on a celestial wall. and what we remember – mostly poetry….it’s all ok, isn’t it? in the end looking back. i guess the lucky ones come to that conclusion.
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If only we can manage to steal the essence…
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Memory serves us well, sometimes,…post-it-notes are better methinks,…Post it Poetry,…✨🦋✨
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Fabulous piece. Hold on to the truth.
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