The days of skipping stones
Watching the clouds form shapes
Remembering the scent of petrichor
Of the summer rain.
We paint the sunset with our fingers
Build sandcastles with our hands
We dream of days in the spring
We dream of summer storms
We dream of red and golden fall
We dream of silver winters.
The days, the hours, the minutes
The moments when all our senses were alive
The days, the hours, the minutes
The years they roll out to sea.
Maybe we will find them again
Maybe they will forever be lost
Let me dream for a while
Of the days stolen
Of the souls time have taken.
Let me feel your breath once more
And hear our hearts beating wild again.