how do we begin to have these conversations?
and, how many times must we stumble upon our own words?
i shut my eyes, a feeble effort to shut a memory down.
but, memories often refuse to play nice.
this memory will not let me be.
it moves. like a vagrant light
across a dark field.
i want to tell it, once more, to go away.
i want to tell it to freeze. cease. die.
i want to tell it things, but my tongue
won't find the words.
i wonder, in awe, at this fumbling
moment that makes me question.
probe. criticize. rage. scream.
g
n
i
s
.
.
.
.
but.
i apologize.
smear me with your whispers, then, memory.
etch your images upon my face.
there is a sleeping river at the edge of this woods.
it waits to reconstruct the mystery of you.
i, too, wait.
taking up as much time and space
as time and space will allow,
i leave everything...
everyone... hanging.
nothing else matters.
nothing, dear, but you.
soon.
we, too, will be memory.
