Warm

And wistful

And fragile

And fleeting.

It’s the sound of a familiar bird call

Oceans from home,

And your teenage self's favorite song

Serenading you on the radio,

And a long overdue phone call with a friend

That turns your voice hoarse from so much reminiscing.

It’s pulling out old photo albums

With handwritten dates and simple descriptions

Of sacred moments that were captured

Of someone you loved

By someone you loved

At a time so much simpler and purer than this.

It's your mind becoming an old projector,

humming and whirring and casting fuzzy images

Of moments

You remember so clearly

Only because you lived them so fully,

Every sense accounted for.

It's not just taking photos of moments,

It's taking photos of memories,

So that one day,

When you look back,

You can only feel one thing.