Hollow Spine

Half-Hour Scenes & Stories

The Dwelling Place

Memories of you, preserved in photographs
I should, but can’t, delete.
The clarity of any particular moment
is too slippery
to grasp.
Words that were said float, lost, in the space
between us. Still, there are photographs. Frozen stills
capturing our Selves at that moment, when we, lost to each other,
sat shoulder-to-shoulder.
Then, there was no space between us.

There was only — us. Nothing before, but nothing after.

I dwell on you. Years pass, yet it was yesterday
when we stood on the side of the road, not ready to drive apart,
knowing it would mean forever. It was yesterday
when we sat on your back porch, the smoke suspended,
shapeless,
above our heads.
It was yesterday when you held my hand in the sand.
The water caressed our heels.

You can do better, you said.

Our feet, suspended over the edge of a bed too small.

You can do better, you said.

But who were you,
to make that call?

Who were you?

You handed me pieces of sea glass.
Clouded shards I placed in a jar that still sits
by my window. Each piece bordered by rounded edges,
smoothed by the love
of the tides.

Frozen stills slide by and I hover, suspended,
over you.

You were worth holding onto.

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This entry was posted on October 6, 2015 by in Uncategorized.

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