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We’ll always have . . .
We’ll always have . . .
Memories aren’t supposed to be spoken
They are meant to be mulled and divulged
In the mind over landscapes of mountains and oceans
Wide rivers of time
So that the memory is more like a dream
That never leaves
That you can enter by just a switch in thought--
Tuning reality to a once upon a time.



Like those most precious and sacred
Memories better with age, they don’t dim
They became like fairy tales in your own personal Grimm
As arresting as the vintage casing of a fifty year old ring.



But like those most dear and divine
Memories slip
They grow old and tattered
Time has them it its grip.
Uncertainty taints the scripture and then
You are left
With a distant picture that only the other
Can describe.



You want a reminder
You want someone to ask you so you can explain
“This did happen.”
There was a time when this memory was not--
A memory.

But no one will believe you - not even yourself
You plead
Play it once for me, play it once for me
For old time’s sake
So I can remember
So I can hear the trains and feel the tablecloth, taste the air, and go back to the
Time that I clutch the tightest
To my bones
And also a time
That I often wish never happened.

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But if I don’t remember, then no one will.

So here’s to loving without foreboding
Here’s to losing without regretting
Here’s to looking at you kid.
It doesn’t matter the distance
Who is the farthest
Because we’ll always have Paris.