Those rural black topped roads
are stained in my blood;
and the oak's tire swing ropes
are papered with your skin.

 All the while dusty gravel drive stones
hold still our cousin's summer sweat,
splinters from collected pine cones
are yet embroidered in their fingers.

We played hard enough to doubt,
and we could never have known,
when we earned our purple hearts,
in memories, we would never grow old.

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