Old things have strange hungers.
An ache that smells like apricots,
but comforts like laughter ricocheting
off falling snow.
Everything once familiar
appearing strange and unseen.
A half forgotten childhood afternoon
finally occurring right now,
stinging vibrant and tender
in the light of a wild pale yonder

The limbed machine of pain is taking form again,
waking from a sleep more glass than velvet.
It wants to walk in the desert. To hurt.
To long.
Dance light and low
to fading Disco music.

Something is on its way.
A wink shaped sound from the northwest,
laceworked with cold spring air and poplar blossoms
colliding to and fro
haphazarding the visage of a man.

When your life is forever defined
by a single action
it changes time.
Everything has something
to do with everything.
Even a sigh shakes like the hand of a normal man,
an idiot
but a brave one,
sending a long-way-home postcard from 3 am
to a first name he’s unsure
ever lived there to begin with.

They are someone's memories.
What difference does it make
if they’re mine
or not?
They're beautiful
true,
and will sing deftly
on the cold-eyed breeze.
That is all that matters.