Life is funny like that sometimes in the brevity of uninterrupted silence.
We sit beneath the trees in our minds,
drinking Sweetwater and whiskey,
thinking and talking,
smoking and dreaming.
We are funny like that sometimes in these simple moments.
Just us in a busy Downtown.
Just us in a crowded room.
Just us.

And forgetting is a mixed blessing.

But beneath these trees,
everything is real and good and clean.
We leave the dirt of the past far behind.

I remember my life in pieces,
fragments of illness,
scar tissue and broken things.
This is survival.
A faded shirt, old journals, the scent of dried roses.
These pieces fail to make a whole.
But he is now my puzzle master,
bringing each jagged edge,
each jaded shard together.

It all seems worth it.

Beneath these trees, we are the last to live, these mental canopies blocking out the sun, the stars, the dirty air, the eyes of strangers.
Untouched and pure
with our whiskey and smokes and love--
teach me a new way to survive.