Not Quite Memory

                                                                                                                                                                         .

Just a hint of you,

like smoke,

stealing its way

into my dreams.

Perhaps it was a memory;

some psychosomatic sensation

that made a connection.

I never forgot you,

or the sickly sweet

scent of your surrender,

but I never thought

I’d ever plunge

back in

to that drowning pool

again.

 

Hint of the tropics

in the winter

of northern Canada.

Smells like a cover-up

to me.

Nothing’s sacred

in these boreal frames,

only fire,

and gunpowder,

and whiskey.

Nothing much to hide.

Then again,

we’re both getting older.

 

I can tell

by that haunted look

in your eyes,

you’ve been seeing ghosts,

or at least,

you think you have.

I’m not sure what’s scarier;

reality,

or watching us both

hide from it.

Mice,

scurrying between the walls,

hiding from the cats

and traps

set in every corner.

 

Consciousness claws back

what fitful repose

the night brings.

I struggle awake,

still smelling

the incongruous perfume

of your memory,

and wondering

if we are ever

truly here,

in this place,

or are we this disturbed

across many planes

of existence?

 

Set aside the mind.

Let the body do

what it does.

live

somewhere in between

the “Tic”

and the “Toc”

of time.

You’re more ephemeral, now

than I last saw you.

Just a hint

as I awoke

from dreaming.

Another ghost.

Another

not quite memory.

 

 

HG – 2022

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