Without consummation, We were golden. With the sun on our lips, surmising and smoking dope by the water, as fresh as living without fulfillment, or the sound of constant to impede us. It is merely in the spirit of the things that I cannot in my own understanding fully comprehend, as I have not yet encountered the nature of this spectacular being, this creature- this “coming of age” is a nameless, meaningless entity of no tangibility or virtue to me, no measure of wear provided by an approaching and unforgiving season that at least in some effort, weathers my previously held notions of time without end as puerile assumptions a girl weak in the knees is given to in adolescence- tender perceptions of a life as of yet untouched by the tragedies of living. The misfortunes thereof- which I feel go without saying- saying doesn’t always necessarily go without voice- the furies of groundless bright sides and goner desire, the darkest comedies of birthday candles and death in June, the deepest pathos of old confessions of love maim all delusions of any kind of unforgettable always into a sober reality without pity for frailty of any kind, or gentle people. No remorse exists in brass tacks, not for that kind of weakness anyway. One such real world is certainly aversive to the bleary eyed, deflowered young waking from their drunkenness and happy delirium, thus being charged by our law bringers of tragedy to contemplate their mortality, as if there is some dire inherent need, some necessity to come to terms with deaths finalities, before you’ve ever had time to unfold your wings or brush your teeth or cloth yourself even and thereon pushed out that door and into nowhere, and in the blindest act of faith known to man committed at least in this life, plunge off the edge of forever into what is truly uncertain. It is in the excessive romance of memory I now warmly regard my misspent youth as the great illusions in April emerging above the threshold of consciousness, perfectly preserved and thin as the nape of a dandelion, noble, naked as thistle seed in the afternoon. That’s love. That’s youth. Not unlike the delicate hand of a child, the sick and sincere attachments of the terminal, this is the pale infancy of our apparent concessions. The age that considers eternities in living has now come to an end, and it turns its lonely attention towards a sun setting upon a time for such innocence and primal warblings. Now, we can no longer stand to be the stark and gasping ecstasies of bare-skinned young, nude in our understanding, combustible in our humors,- Time now to lengthen our bones and clad our blush in the somber hues of ripe age, thoroughly reminded we are of the perishing glass of beauty