It doesn't age the way most things do, a thing
self-contained, born again with each new beat, and as long as the container
thrives, it thrives, while the container that contains it might grow ragged and
gray, one look deep into her eyes and I am revived, lifted up, made to feel
young again, the beat of it as vivid as the beat of the heart that surrounds it,
stirring up all that once was good or bad, all part of that particular
existence I carry around inside as if a history book, and living up to the old
adage about those who do not recall it are doomed to repeat, it only that's
what I ache for most, not to go back, not to be young, but to feel it at those
moments when it all worked, when it could not possibly get that good again
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