It sucks everything in;
even the light.
The light that you played in as a child,
in the sun with the aliens that lived on the corner.
The sun that lit the smoke that spilled
from plastic guns that sounded and smelled like fireworks,
in the summer that your mother
yelled at the man in the convenience store.
It pulls away the moments of your life
(especially the ones you don’t remember):
the football overalls you wore on your first super bowl,
and the bump on your head
from when you fell from your bed
as a boy.
The smell of your father’s shirts,
and the exact spots where those holes are meant to be.
Your first glass of beer
and the first lips you kissed.