Purple and black in the day, in the night.

If I could scrape your thoughts naked and siphon them back into our mutual jar of light, would I? I am undecided. Today, right now, draped black from tip to toe--I would say no, without hesitation no. It is, rather, when scent or body language or frail-light touch catch me unaware, that I reconsider. I ask my self why/why not, and all that undefinable space that lingers in between. I hardly even remember the tones of your voice anymore, the shape of your breath--the lifting and the falling of both. For this, I am worshipfully relieved. I would rather stow those months and years and millimeters that make up days in some concealed (yet far from forgotten) cache within the layers of myself--a tiny vial, slender and embroidered with a protective web of skin and blood and tissue. There, I can handle it. I can travel back to it when I feel loose enough, or ready. If details blur; the length of a feathery eyelash or the way that you would go through the motions slowly, ever slowly, then I can peer back into that pristine yet shielded oval hollow of memory, and realize--oh yes, those were the words you used to say goodnight, or that was the way you held your fork. Or I could choose not to, which is drizzling into stronger likelihood with each passing day.

The almond tea laced between my fingers burns the white of my skin, but in a way it feels nice. Like heat with a little searing edge of pain. It energizes, almost. The socks pooled at my feet, now bare, are older than I can even trace back...were they my father's or maybe my brother's or a boyfriend's now long melted away? I can't recall, and I don't even care beyond the point of curiosity. The patchwork of everything--not just the material against my body; all of it from then until now--presses in on my silhouette, sometimes sadness shot through with an injection of light...but usually spirited like a wind that cools.

Back and forth; forth, back...forth and back and over again. A bird winging itself northwards, exhaustion setting in amidst the darts of rain lashing down. Rhythm seduces, and something tells me that it always will. No matter the angle, challenge is almost alluring as it is off-putting. Didn't we always know it would be this way?