I like to ask you about things I already know over and over. I review your invariable answers, intact memories piling up against my window until they break free and force me to start a new collection, a new old question. So many of them have flown that now I find your echo written on the sky, on the leaves that fall, on a sudden inexplicable smile during the darkest of noons.
Over an oozy stream of nightly silence my eardrums vibrate to serene waves which once flowed from your sweet mouth. I’ve seen your still face on a screen; your eyes of quiet forest have crossed twilight and caressed my weary heart. Is this image enough to remember the feeling of a kiss?
I hear you—you see me moving from a morning which has not dawned for you yet. One day the sun will touch our foreheads from the same angle, and I’ll ask you something silly, like the possibility of rain or what happened to the fast food stand which used to be on that corner. Let words or lack thereof trickle then into the space between us. And when that space is no longer possible, let new sounds and sights shine away into a broken horizon, well over the indigo mountains, waiting to reverberate on the cold concrete wall of another lonesome morning.
