Before the roads had white lines in the middle, much before the street lamps got their steel legs, from the days when bicycles had nothing to do with a workout, when rains were an excuse to modify game rules, when a glass of milk was always two mouthfuls too much, a trip to the market was an outing.
Next to a recycled tin holding pens, surrounded by the debris of smooth rubbery matrix from worn out pencil erasers, next to a pile of dog eared secondhand comic books and a forlorn flower vase hosting an empty wasp nest, coated in a thin film of dust, stands a faded coffee mug with fresh memories from a farewell.
Beyond the train of thoughts, lost in the scents of long gone car perfumes, in the sound of grateful alley cats, around the curb painted blue and grey, scalded by tea in a paper cup, is a message waiting, still unsend.
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