my memories play in slow motion,
when i think of our time together,
small details become vivid,
a strand of hair on her face; her laugh.
driving my old pickup down the interstate,
her bare feet on my dash,
burnt orange of the sunset at our backs,
wind filtering through cracked windows.
george strait saying for us,
what we couldn't say to each other.
we were the picturesque young couple,
fumbling in ignorance, yet innocence.
for there is something to be said
of the process by which we each learn to love.
some only have to go through it once,
while others, like me, must endure loss.
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