A sliver of innocence, sealed in the golden hues of a July evening.
Swinging legs out over a tiny village, where roses climb the walls of homes below.
Perched upon the hilltop castle ruins.
Warm, quaint nooks of countryside that cradled a longing for something sweet and authentic. Refreshing and ancient.
Knowing where the speed radar hid around the bend. Backwoods slumber parties. The brilliant idea to source an extra bottle of wine at the obscure restaurant down the road, late in the evening. Eating Carrefour crème brûlée– with a 50% chance of getting the accents on crème brûlée correct if we had to spell it. Birthday mimosas by the garden pool as if we owned the place. Sharing secrets in between having been and becoming strangers again.
Today, I'm perched upon these memories; like the remnants of a castle.
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