Sun-soaked skin, glistened with youth, protected by innocence, laughter as clear and distant as whispers of finality, too fleeting to be tenable, like the sensation of a lover’s fingertips, yet too real to let pass, like the river rushing, washing away— the imprint of its absence is only left behind. Cuddled by ignorance, soothed by naiveté, held closely by arms that know all too well, the wounds inflicted upon a youthful soul by growth. And if it is not caught with both hands, and reveled in as if there will be no more, it will pass by, discreetly, begging to question if it was ever really there at all.