Stream of Consciousness

Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart.
– Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

The wind is blowing up memories this evening.
A dusty film roll that fell off the table –
the way it unwinds.
Memories that are gracious. Inspiring. Long forgotten.
Of planes overhead and white fences and red cars.
Of people I once knew, people I loved, people that walked away.

Fallen leaves remind me of November in Portland.
They are green now; they were red then.
Angels danced in rainstorms, and lovemaking struck lightning.
They stirred something in me, something familiar.
Something kind of like hope.
Something kind of like home.

The memories that made me.
The ones that destroyed me.
All of those pretty little things – stars and spirals and shockwaves.
Old kisses, passionate kisses, tangled hair kisses.
Everyone’s past is a little knotty then and again, isn’t it?
We try to comb through with running water and deep breaths.

I scroll through – neon signs that blink survivor,
Neon signs that flash and burn, bright blue flames.
Heat that I remember, but can no longer feel.
If I could, I would press it into me once more.
Let it change me, write me, make me.
Love it like a fleeting blessing. Like fleeting hope.

My last stop is you. It’s always you.
Wind in your hair, eyes of hazel and fire.
Spiced ginger and dandelions.
You are devastatingly beautiful.
I can’t feel you, I can’t reach you – I want to hold you.
But memories are just ghosts that we can’t let go.

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