oh, the rain of words…
the spill of silent thoughts
inked upon, not paper, but air!

words with which i seek
the subliminal memory of a dream
that remembers me explicitly in
the sinking twilight of morning.

no color. no scent. no sound.
how can you be made to understand?

memory is a somatic presence.
it breathes me in while holding shut
its topography within me.

it tunnels through the hollows of my body,
frayed with incertitude,
leaving its certainty behind.

i am injury. i am salt.
i am wound,
i say.

i am throbbing,
i say.

i am a vessel, emptied
and ready to receive.

i double over.
shadows spill from
my eyes, my ears, my mouth.

something blooms softly
in the angles of my core.

i breathe.
and again.

i remember…
not with my mind,
but with my body.