They're Just a Pair of Shoes
Except not.
They were shoes that I have been wanting for ages, and finally found a pair that were both ON SALE and my size. If you've ever seen my feet, you'll know that it is HARD to find something that is short enough without squeezing the life out of them, since children's feet are definitely narrower.
I bought them happily, and I wore them on that date where we confessed to each other. My white shoes were stained brown from hiking with you, but I didn't mind, because I was with you.
I didn't mind that bleach didn't quite wash out the dirt stains from our trek up to see the city lights, because it reminded me of that moment up on the hill, leaning against you and listening to your heartbeat.
Months later, I had to again bleach my shoes, because the city has smog, and smog does horrible things to white canvas shoes.
Still, the dirt stains are here, but you are not.
I look at them, telling myself that they're just a pair of shoes.
Except not.
They're a reminder of that time.
I remind myself: they're just a pair of shoes.
Except not.