People and places.

This is the beginning of the end.
Somewhere else, new things are stirring. And the old, familiar ones are beginning to rust, beginning to mould themselves into immovable patterns set in time.
Like nostalgia.
Places begin to fix themselves too, piecing together scraps of memory to form an identity.
People are made of places.
Places that seep into you like rain, leaving behind faint irremovable marks.

There are places I’ll remember
All my life though some have changed
Some forever not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life I’ve loved them all.