Memory of Eden

I remember the fall out of wooden trunks thrust

together by the endless labors of Adam and Eve.

With each toy active on my bedroom floor, under the stars,

I evolved into this alien concept with monkey ears from

heaven; only living for the moment of the single digits. And

you were that prized blonde trophy I carried with me and climbed

to the top of that glass skyscraper etched in chalk and showed

off to our parents, as useless as ants. As the firefly jars grew

older with dust and mold, so did we. To our rusting mothers, we

traded in our sparkled wands and rainbow capes for black pens and

backpacks and got sent out into the wild unknown at the sudden sound

of an alarm clock. Our red apples rotted in our heads and we became

the gray cores of forgotten juice.