words by dominic riccitello

you die because it makes sense
in a sort of romantic pretense
we lie in a world of black
for eternity
while moments we had reminise
in our minds on edge
will we take what we said and run
or fall into depth of emotion
where we regret the moments we had
instead of turning the page
and remembering faces on a street
voices over voicemails
the little things
like their favorite book on their shelf
touching in kitchens where knives spent
their time in the woods cutting trees
to make fires i spent with you
 
these are the things which make sense
because we’re twisting in endless moments
searching for something better than the previous
instead of appreciating time comes
time also goes
dancing in diapers in hallways
only happens for so long
 
you get older
more prone 
eyes glisten from experience
places you traveled only become more nostalgic
as we get older because memories seem finer
than they were in truth
but when we’re presented with problems
we look back where was it that bad?
and it wasn’t
because we’re masochists in ourselves
dwelling on moments before the moment could pass
and we age
not to age
but to appreciate life as it was
instead of life as we thought
it was