Souvenirs

Twins from different mothers, we both think that we breathe too much and no one loves rust better than us. Trying hard to find whatever we have lost, souvenirs of innocence, pastel dustrags. Holes in our pockets, holes in our hearts, leaking at the seams with patchwork pride. Pink and blue memories of wet cement curbs, silver spokes and mud puddle smiles. Our pain is just a souvenir, still I wish the ghosts were gone. We could chase them with a broom and sweep the roosters from the room together. Leave his picture in the rhinestone frame, wear your heartache like a crown, add another cloud to your collection. Then I'll meet you halfway and we'll dance in the rain so we won't see each other's tears... tomorrow's souvenirs.