We were heading home, our combined
voices blaring alongside the tunes
that, carefully curated, lit the backdrop
to our journey, and we laughed and
sang, and in my head a pome formed,
not fully, but the bones of something
I might bring to the page and write
about happily.

But as with all things I hold dear,
that shelf of memory is so rickety
that whatever I placed for later
retrieval fell into the abyss upon
which I float, never to be held
once more, nor elaborated on in
text form, and I curse myself
for not using the more permanent
reminders.