My life began and ended
then began again.
Old relatives and friends
came and went
like images scrolling
on a computer screen.
It’s green glow spills onto my skin
and into this dark room
where time stands still
and clothes pile in the corner,
while outside perennials bend
and open their petals
towards the sun
to swallow its gaze,
then bow back down
in respect for the ghost moon
who sends spirits that fold lines
into the faces of those in sleep.
They play with our dreams
like wooden marionettes
and smooth the edges of memories
just as bone dulls a steel blade.
I’m sure they have visited us,
whispered some secret out our mouths.
As I sit here, I try to place us
somewhere between the cycle
of day and night, between
pixelated moments encoded
in gigabytes on my hard drive.
I place a number on a virtual file
to hide it from prying hands
that come like a mist in the night.
Safe between the ones and zeros
and electric highways of a computer chip,
not so different from those in my brain
where nerves endings could zap
me back to a time when I knew
the dip and curve of your collar bone,
the taste of menthol on your breath,
those late nights when we first met
and fell asleep to the sound of the dogs barking
as the neighbor’s children left for school.
Apr 30, 2017
Apr 30, 2017 at 12:34 AM UTC
My life began and ended
then began again.
Old relatives and friends
came and went
like images scrolling
on a computer screen.
It’s green glow spills onto my skin
and into this dark room
where time stands still
and clothes pile in the corner,
while outside perennials bend
and open their petals
towards the sun
to swallow its gaze,
then bow back down
in respect for the ghost moon
who sends spirits that fold lines
into the faces of those in sleep.
They play with our dreams
like wooden marionettes
and smooth the edges of memories
just as bone dulls a steel blade.
I’m sure they have visited us,
whispered some secret out our mouths.
As I sit here, I try to place us
somewhere between the cycle
of day and night, between
pixelated moments encoded
in gigabytes on my hard drive.
I place a number on a virtual file
to hide it from prying hands
that come like a mist in the night.
Safe between the ones and zeros
and electric highways of a computer chip,
not so different from those in my brain
where nerves endings could zap
me back to a time when I knew
the dip and curve of your collar bone,
the taste of menthol on your breath,
those late nights when we first met
and fell asleep to the sound of the dogs barking
as the neighbor’s children left for school.