Vision

I woke this morning with the taste of missing you ringing through my body like dusty wind chimes. Hollow, thin, tossing careless melodic memories into the wind.  They hung from yellowed yarn across the heart and eyes, like thin pollen coated window curtains, and clouded the vision of the morning as I stretched like a shadow across an empty bed. 

 I must tell you that these wind chimes are particular. I make them from the old sandy bones I excavate from beaches during the blackness of night. It isn’t so lonely there as one might expect. For example - there is the company of the vacant barking waves echoing from the looming shadow mountains which sit atop the sky. Or the phantoms of your smile which I see secretly lurking behind sand dunes. I’ve learned that some company is best enjoyed in hiding.

Q: is the ringing (Memory) akin to the brightness of metallic shimmering bells?

A: No - the ringing (Memory) is more akin to the hollowness of marimbas - 

This morning the bells ring like the space held between silence and sounding. I hold completely still while attempting to turn into a stone, so that I may be cast against the shattering anxiety shards of waiting - but all of my efforts are fruitless.  So I enter the deepest sleep as the moon holds the waves at bay.

One day when I wake up I will go to the beach. I will drape the chimes across my body like a blanket humming against the cool wind. And there I will wait for decimation, with sandy time between my toes, hoping that in time these bones too will be worthy of wind chimes.

If Love Spreads Across the Palm of Tomorrow

I.

Were it only a matter of the future, the dilemma of decisions would leave nothing but hollow shadows. Yet , the heavy weight of memory’s face reveals itself in every mundane act of the present. For this reason she kept a tiny hand mirror in her pocket, which she would use to check, constantly, the world behind her. 

When he stood in front of her she tried her best to superimpose the idea of his silhouette in the mirror, but found both the reflection, and his long face, emptied. 

She always walked backwards on her way home, admiring the jagged purple edge where the sky scrapers tore open the sky in the tiny reflection. 

II.

If love comes in the night, let it come as ghost in the mirror - she prayed - let it come burdened by the heavy weight cast by the shadows of the past. And let those shadows descend upon it like the rapid sundial’s finger, or like the sudden collapsing of fortune’s towers upon unsuspecting spectators. 

This I know: Shadows of the past often carry more credence in the dirt of their nails than the frail physical forms and the hopes of the present.