It is when my heart quiets like an anvil I write to you, unsent letters. Those truths are always my favorite. Moments I want sustained in a loop in time; like a cassette rolling backwards and forwards, never moving too far back beyond the moment of meeting, never moving forward to a caress. Just the incident of two souls touching a thousand times…
Pills popping and un-popping, like fireworks bursting and un-bursting in the night. Somewhere a wine cork is screwing back itself. Grapes wrinkling and un-wrinkling, running dry back into rock soil. Veins are doing the same, too.
Here is where I want such moments to Gif. Such moments as when we ate butterflies and watch the night sky get bright from dying lights. Am I writing this right? Can I kiss her again here. Kiss her like I’ve never tasted it before? Can you recreate that love? Like when it was a staggered column patrolling the outer edges of my heart, but not to the point like when it was a war dance–like water in hot oil.
Am I writing this right?
Can you grab such moments, heap it in bricks like peat, and burn it. Can you warm my inside with that smoke? Can you reincarnate moments like it was then in the now? Grow me like grass once more? Is that a difficult trick to master, pushing against gravity or resealing a volcano? Are these just good wishes? Empty benedictions being pushed back through me like a voice through a sieve?