I.)

The powder of
butterscotch snow banks
and their cold, intangible touch.

II.)

A summertime novella,
the worn binding
furrowed by the many 
wrinkles of forethought.

III.)

The hilltop pavilion,
where the rafters had seen us
come and go,
and the dust had settled
in a thick varnish.

IV.)

A chlorine daze
minced with muggy undertones,
and a pungent, algae after-scent

V.)

That old amphitheater,
the ripples of grassy knolls
wavered as if to applaud
the ivy in its final, withered bow.

VI.)

The rows of marble,
in stoic hundreds, and thousands,
the knotholes as gateways
to their infinity.

VII.)

The lanterns, in makeshift
moon shadows, and romanticism
skin deep in shallow waters. 

VIII.)

The days when all of these things
were intertwined, 
bound at the fingers,
in something of a matrimony,
something pure, and holy.