The lines in the corner of his eyes tell a story.
You can read the laughter, the love, the happiness, and the loss before a word is said.
He stops by on idle afternoons that ebb into evenings with no apology or streetlights to warn you home.
His stories meander like the stream I played in as a child catching crayfish and damming progress.
I am lulled into a peaceful reverie I have come to embrace.
We speak of music and bygone eras, how the drums and guitar used to tell a story and lacked complication.
We speak of sailing and dreams that floated away on tides we long to control but can only brush as they slip away.
In his words a hazy dream emerges as it forms in swirls and bursts that cause me to imagine.
He talks of worlds I’ve never known and in the sadness and the longing, I hear hope.
I wait for the next evening and the next chance to dream.