Caught in the flux, memories shift again — each turns
an unmade bed. Words rearrange, meanings undone.
Image after image, lift each slide to the light—your eyes
closed in the glare, lips pressed to a smile. When was this?
Who’s in the background? No, I don’t remember. I can’t recall.
Lay it across the table—a postcard, two tickets, a hotel key. But
still I have questions: was it Marrakesh or Madrid where you spilt
wine down your dress, were starlings crossing in the evening air,
was it the muezzin or church bells that woke us in the field,
what ocean pushed against stones like a crowd come together
to say your name? ‘Love is all we have,’ you say (taking my hand).
‘We’ll be more careful from now on—take notes, souvenirs,
lay a trail back to the woods.’
No (I insist). This dream’s but half done.
I’ll climb back in, eyes closed until every last word…