Not even the stone looks the same,
sealed up in here.

I remember the stone Buddhas of Sukohthai.
Smooth with age,
resting on broken sandstone.

Funny but I cant write it,
staring at this piece,
“Buddha seated under the Bodhi Tree.”

Can’t write the way the sun set over the ruins
in perfect orange and purple streaks,
the way it felt to walk between the stones
in the gathering dusk,
your hand in mine,
the tropical darkness raining down all around us.

Stopping by one shrine
of a Buddha that looked just like this one,
a burst of red flowers growing from the rock.

Funny but I can’t write the feeling I had then,
not at all.

I woke to moths falling from the ceiling
and you,
in the dimly lit room beside me.

You grabbed me then,
held me down against the coarseness of the sheets
and whispered something.

I was afraid to wake up,
afraid that I would still have these bruises,
bite marks, broken blood beneath my skin.

Your way,
of saying goodbye.

Sometimes it's better to talk through memories she says.

And he wonders,
could we even do that anymore?
You and I?