..:s c r a p b o o k:..

Scrapbook

We’re sitting in a sea of pink and green
paper that’s surrounding us: under, between
the matted sheets of pictures that we took,
now glued inside my heavy maroon book.
Soft lines of swirling glitter gently meet
and merge on the image of Cone Apetît,
where the odor of frying grease still sticks
to your clothes and my hair. Bold colors lick
the edges of the bowling alley where
Friday came alive and lived for two short years,
and died on graduation’s green and gold,
where vacant pages leave our story untold.
If I could take the pieces of my heart—
put them back together, call them art—
I’d keep it like it was across these pages,
hold it fast, to fight against the ages.