Summertime.The swirling wishes and daydreams of a final resting place. Like traveling towards heaven and later discovering I'd ended in purgatory.
Nighttime.
The dreams that will wake us and keep us lying motionless, necks cramped, as reeling images are seared into memory.
A controlled burn.
Memories of memories. Imitations of memories. Visions opening like the liner notes of an old familiar record. And there as the centerfold, a picture of Her. Intimate, just of her face. Lovely, faded into a grayish-blue with a fuzzy Polaroid quality.
If this picture actually existed and I’d seen it a year ago I would not have realized how sad it was. But now I can see that her head is resting against the bed and weighted with thoughts too heavy to lift, just like mine is now. Pillows soaked in the invisible bleeding messes of yearning, obsessive thinking. Faint smell of our singed wisps of hair.
