Light appeared to flood the room from every opening.  As witness, events become a part of you with or without memory.

His pale blue eyes bright with platinum drew far to the right and rested on a tiny spider struggling with the life he weaved into a home. Night and the day are the same in his corner; vibrations bring more to his sight and so to his will. Still, with so little sense of purpose the value of empirical evidence is purely survival. Impressions sear with the power granted them by instinct, but what burns is both finite and intangible.

Now she wails just to fill the space where songs of youth turned first to painful sighs and eventually to silence. Sighs became panicked gulps of escaping life like a fish choking on air, then to sharp, brain stem gasps which stopped abruptly with a final inhale, as if to mock them as they held their breath.

Waiting for him. Waiting, for him.

Turning yellow and waxen, the visage peeled back like old wallpaper to unveil a suddenly abandoned cell, a vacant cage.

He said that if you read the bible, you’d think it’s really not hard to be more forgiving than God.

Celestial rotations are no less the same in light and vibration; felt more than seen,  known but never understood, deceptive in relative stillness and constant motion. 

As time measures change only men give meaning to presence and absence,

To a road with beginning or end,

To give and to take,

To deliverance. 

Each new sun emits the same light,

But the varying hues appeal

To my singular sense of direction.

The same golden orb rises and falls

Beyond an endless borderline.

I am a sick beast in a cage,

I am a dog running in my sleep,

I lunge to catch that bouncing glow,

To keep it hidden.

After so many miles in your shadow,

The best has been to join your name with mine,

An experience in a suffix.

Your dreams became my dreams,

Your vision filled my empty eyes.

Now this cage is the cage of my ribs

Holding ice packed hard
Around a sentiment preserved,

Chasing the unattainable sun. 

Where You Are

The pretty ones are too pretty to know their places.

The young are never too young, the old never yet old,

The toothless are laughing

or silent in dark transformation.

In the lamb's eye or the tiger's mouth,

comfort creeps into discomfort.

Acceptance or apathy adjusts
the pinks pains and grey aches

while the object of years is the same

from one death to the next.

Still the broken heart keeps beating.  

I awake in a blue shroud. Dawn’s pale glow seeps through cotton cobalt sheets, an azure wave under which I drift, dozing in a soft haze, eyes half-closed and crusted with tear sand. The shuffle of feet, the scuttle of sea crabs, pull me from the reverie dissolving in this Yves Klein tapestry. Your thin silhouette is a fleeting work of art, a mere two-dimensional paper cutout of the round, heavy night dweller. Your panicked pace and jerking joints perform my toy theatre; now for the scene of a brave and daring escape. 
As the door shuts tightly behind you, I surface gasping for air in one exasperated gesture. Airtight. A hot balloon expands against the cage of my ribs; taught pleura, a pulmonary distortion hardened and crackling as it rises. The growing pressure pulsates with the clock’s flashing red, heartbeats drowned in the blue filtered light of another empty morning.

I came from the sand.
I climbed out, faithless, to find you.
I covered my hungry hands with your smile,
I walked barefoot through coniferous woods,
I sweat glass and bled silver into your mouth,
and when you, the sun, the inferno that called me,
asked me why I came,
I showered sharks teeth upon you 
and returned as salt to my desert.

Josya

"Belong to" is not the same as "depend on", we once agreed, although some languages do not distinguish the two. You claimed you refused to be possessed, embracing your owner while holding my hand. "I wouldn't want her to say she loved me anyway." Sixty-three night strolls, a half-dozen bottles of gin and countless pages later, we were clearing out. She was calling you, but you'd be back, you assured me. I don't remember goodbye.

That summer, I was hiding again. I sent you one hundred hideous snakes of Medusa and you returned each one headless, covered in red marks, prodding me out from inside. Until you wrote you were staying. I knew the decision depended on her, belonged to her, and when you disappeared, you were still exclaiming that you refused to be deceived. Her words from your mouth were the last I heard of you.

Now that you are gone, what does your memory depend on?  To whom does your memory belong?