Scrapbook Routine

Forget the thousand still-frame days  
Unfiltered snapshots of our realities  
Pieced together like a seamless stop-motion film  
 
Those blooming romances of our past glazed over with a warm sheet of dull noir and sappy jazz  
 
The tragic funeral weeks where time stood still amidst the cold strokes of pain on the saddest landscape    
 
Our first anxious sideways stare , peering into a horrid realm of coatrack men and Dali's tree branch hands  
 
Briefly lived vacations spent imagining the cliche slideshows we neglected to build at all  
 
The oddly beautiful birth of each little being , coated with a layer of organic sepia and a mothers smile  
 
Awkward first kisses under the cheap laser lights , choreographed perfectly to the school dance blues  
 
Weekend marathons of soda pop and Benadryl , speckled with a hazy mist of our favourite shooting games  
 
Greyscale swimming holes that sung the most perfect theme song to our countryside puberty  
 
Forget the thousand still-frame days  
Unfiltered snapshots of our realities  
Pieced together likes a seamless stop-motion film