thirty something nothing

on the way home, still frantically tearing off articles of colorless clothing, we decided to go to the place our friend last said "I love it here".
leaves and years cover the footprints we had secretly hoped to locate. and somehow the smells we thought to recall. & somehow we still think about all of those missing bits, possibly more in their absence.
white glints in the water of salmon carcass from this past spring. why have they not been masticated by water or a mouth? why are those the things that managed to stick around. all we wanted was a lousy bottle cap. on the way back to the car you unearthed some red birthday balloon shrapnel.
we found ourselves closer to the sky than we planned and took a slow drive back where we came from.
on the drive we used the "slow moving vehicles lane" as often as possible. people in colorless clothing have no business in cars. particularly no fast ones. and we can not be bothered to adjust to our chromatic thinking selves.
once home we ate everything worth its sugar from the cooler and called it a night. sand still in our shoes, colorless clothes piled high, tears on our sleeves, and some dusty red balloon shrapnel.