A glint.

When your memories are the only tangible reality left, and when your dreams are your only consciousness. As children it is acceptable to be confused and to ask questions but as adults we are expected to have answers.
We are conceived with imagination; imagination that becomes dilute, mislaid and muddled with 'facts'.

The dull murmur of a street-light closely hugging a tree permeated my skin; a telephone conversation of frustration and passion - a conversation that would lead to me walking back past this dim musicality feeling as drained and weary as the noise itself. Then, a light and tentative rain poked between the strands of my hair; resting where deemed suitable. Each stationary droplet echoing some previous experience - almost forgotten.

Our purity is engulfed by experience and emotional development; armed with a stern expression decisions are made only to later transform into remorse - regret.
Yielding a shield of pride we mostly never look back with intention of rectifying whatever it is that breathes upon our breath at night.

The bed is made; the duvet folded over on the right-hand side into an isosceles triangle. At times it is possible to recapture the imagination we misplaced in the eyes of those who remember; those who saw you travel the world, marry royalty, and fly through the skies.
We are able to recapture this if only in moments at least, thanks to those who remember us.