5:13 A.M.
awakened to the very cusp of habit-
flickered vision: window (sunless).
liquid crystal touch screen (scheduled madness).
and the simplest things in life: your love (is average).
back still sore from whatever was in store for yesterday.
you race your thoughts up against nothing.
you know. stall for time.
5:23 A.M.
the iPhone weather (or not, as my dad used to joke)
said, expect some showers. or don't.
nature, the guest with no qualms
about just showing up unannounced
5:30 A.M.
your warm embrace has left a red depression on her shoulder.
you must've slept undisturbed until this umpteenth hour-
--you kept your breath--
cause now she stirs as you disengage.
your arm a seatbelt more than chains,
but still the sense of stolen hoodies holds its footing
(immaturity, I guess)
--unfastened. unrestrained. dispassionate, unsustained--
untapped, yet, like storming rain.
bringing out every scent from terra firma.
other scents that drenched your pillow.
the sense that it isn't 'her.'
sentiments bred of staying still.
--barren, earthen, uninterred. undeserved--
...
yes, that's your name she whispers.
just the same as ever. darkness makes it hard
to put names to faces.
--I won't be recalled--
the grainy distance that night affords us lends to cover
--you need some air--
5:33 A.M.
the gentle click of the porch slider might've well been a thunderclap.
--has it rained yet?--
you spark a filterless,
cough the wind out in dusty lungfuls.
5:38 A.M.
I think I might have loved someone.
It wasn't much, and I couldn't place it, now.
I mean, "how much" might as well be
the number of steps back you went after peering into that ravine.
Portland... Erie?
Like I said, I couldn't place it, cause it's not that kind of love.
I can place the moments, like. Of the, "I can take these home"-ish type.
Not stashed under pillows like comic books (then sighs of lust)
It's not a visiting type of want. Not a live with me type of haunt.
All the symmetry that can hide in touch,
couldn't mimic this type of want.
you seeing me and me seeing you
that's these open eyes.
....
5:41 A.M.
I remember she had this chalkboard wall.
Notes. Doodles. Paper games. Favorite quotes.
She'd hand out chalk like chocolates,
only a few of us were regular writes.
People are drawn to that. Different minds.
This one time, I had this perfect quip
(I always wrote four words at a time,
with some tacky meaning, I was young)
She loved it. I don't remember exactly,
though
I remember the trace of her collarbone
as she bubbled it into a clouded thought.
Chalkdust quickening in the skylight's holding glow,
miniature cosmos swimming towards the sky,
adrift in the bottled memory kept like
college trophies for the fridge top.
The smell of rain. Sandalwood and chamomile
The lay of her hips, beside some textbook, and test took,
long forgotten even then
Shallow curls pooled on sheets.
Wrapped up in each other
search for warmth in winter jackets
In your Jeep with the belts unlatched
Aftermath of arguments
a look of resent stretched past
the first line you read
and the regret
as I followed that gaze
Coming home to boxes
and a cleaner slate than
you'd ever start to learn from
5:58 A.M.
A couple splashes on the railing
wiped the dust right off.
There was something, once,
that reminded me of this very moment.
I can't seem to recall. The yard
swam with drafts of birch beer,
--Cherry ChapStick, bound books--
and the aimless flare of matches-
my alarm pierced the silence and I sprinted inside,
--remember right. remember, write--
Quote:
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Originally Posted by Edgar Allen Poe
In our endeavors to recall to memory something long forgotten, we often find ourselves upon the very verge of remembrance, without being able, in the end, to remember
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