7.1.18 | just a pair of sneakers

I don't want to give up the shoes that were first worn while wandering the city streets with her. They gave my feet hell, proudly causing blisters, but they were worth it in the end. I remember staring down at them while riding back on the train after she unexpectedly grabbed my hand, confirming the hesitation that surrounded us. We took a picture of our feet, as we sat on the curb waiting for our ride, all of our shoes together, in sync, just as we were right before we broke apart, eager to roam as we had to in order to truly find ourselves.
They wore themselves down with grace and dignity, carrying me through different towns and trails, hiding adventures in their soles, and magic in their dirtied laces.
I don't want to throw them away and get a new pair, because although they can physically be replaced, there's no guarantee that the beautiful, tangible memories ever possibly could.
That is what I am most scared of in life-- that the new memories laying in the future could never possibly amount to the ones of the past, forever unable to be recreated.