Dust & Congas

Shall I enjoy the missing while I can still remember the tastes & smells & softness in the air between us? Will it fade? Will eight years of touch become a dust-covered epic in the attic of my mind? Can lives so-entwined unravel like that? They do. We have only the moment. Everything else is dead. Is that why I keep memories so close to my heart, why I visit them like old friends not to be left unattended for too long? The mind is so immense. So much lost in the corridors. Yet the heart can hardly tell waking from dreaming & these sensate memories of ripened affection and acceptance feel more real than a disjunct dinner conversation. Shall I be grateful that real love is close enough to mourn?

Have I always cried like this? At ease in my heart, some piece of Loss stirring. Soft light. My feet on the couch. Music. Black cat sleepily sinking into the wooden floor. The congas across the room know my joy will turn. They're not worried.