Out of the blue, I hear
your rustling in the back
of my frontal lobe, among
the cellular boxes, caved-in
and heavy with sediment.
When I pull the yellowed,
frail strings leading to you,
covers are nudged open
and you appear.
Forty years have been
wearing down your features
like rocks in a stream,
and my emotions are now faint
electrical pulses; too lazy,
too old to register.
But, in this commotion,
a crumpled bag nearby
falls over, releasing apparitions
of you and me standing over
a spot in our favorite park,
searching for the golden snake
ring I had thrown into some bushes
after a jealous fit over a once-sharp
reason, now too pointless to feel.
But it is not really you and me;
it is aged molecules that oscillate
into a semblance of our shapes
and then shift back to forgetfulness.
As quickly as these stirrings
of memory come to life, they begin
to fade; the dust of the past
settles back down,
ever so gently.
I will hold on to your shadow
but you, you are now forty
light-years away.
