by
Ryan Casey
on
my skin, wind
yet when I look up
the clouds, the sky still
It
cannot be memory. Nor does it exist in dreams. It is
some form of reality that is intangible and yet so fantastically
sensual that existence becomes utterly unquestionable. And
I am here, and the sun is softly sinking beneath the horizon. The
shadows stretch like a cool embrace.
For
a moment-not even a second-the trees and the creatures are silent.
An eerie sense of waiting. But then motion continues again.
Notes underscored by water, finding its way around a bend in the
stream.
There
is a tree. I donât know what kind. I donât
know trees. Not by name. But here-this tree-I know (sense?
understand?) its personality. Two limbs split at the trunk,
growing apart. Twisted with a pain that refuses regret.
The
bark feels rough under my hands. It wears a layer of dead
skin away. Dry, white scratches. I close my eyes.
Take a slow breath. Air filling my chest. Crisp.
Dark. Night now.
starlight
shimmers
in ripples
of a jumping fish
a leaf falls to the stream
floats away
I was
here with you once. Wasn't I?
Your
long hair tumbling across my face. Obscuring the moon-half
full. The earth cool, solid against the back of my neck.
Your lips warm-hot and fleeting-at my throat.
Our
words dancing. Floating upwards. Transcendental.
You
absent-mindedly wrote our initials in a heart. Etched in the
mud. Near the winding stream.
Memory
is like craziness. And I doubt. The past. Myself.
Alone,
I begin to walk. Slowly. Into the night. And the
moon. And memory. And into the reality of myself.
footsteps
in the mud
fall gently into the dark blue
of moon shadows
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