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We all have things we dream of.
On nights when I close my eyes,
I chase the strands of colors on the back of my eyelids.
My own galaxies;
I don’t even have to stretch to meet them-
We were close.
At one point.
I used to fold the notes from my mind in the small creases at the corner of my eyes,
I held those secret words there,
daring you to steal them away.
They all held the same three words.
I hope they sometimes leaked out with my laughs.
My heart called for shutter clicks every time
I held your bitten fingertips in my hands,
tasted your lips after ice cream,
or found your smile.
My heart seized for a lot of things.
I used to remember them the way they were,
But now I see them from your eyes,
And I see them from the outside-
I suppose those are the moments where I’ve forgotten how I loved you then.
In the mornings,
I wait for new photographs to roll in,
Ones of us on the beach,
Or in the rain-
In the mornings,
my eyelids are pink,
I hope the light shining through doesn’t destroy the film.
And before I let go of the shutter release,
I imagine I’ll wake to discover
I was taking a long exposure shot of you.
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The forest was vast,
but warm and welcoming.
The deer were not near,
but the forest was vast,
there was always more to claim.
After a time of the purest peace
the man had to stoop, and he clutched at his chest.
He breathed the way omens breathe,
and rested the gun against a tree,
The man fell, an aged oak coming to rest.
Landed, face in the leaves,
The gun saw the man fade into the forest.
It was slow, but not like Wild Time.
Wild Time made life feel young,
made time feel young.
The forest was ageless.
The gun leaned on the tree.
Watched suns rise and fall.
Watched constellations, the way they shifted each night.
Learned to see Wild Change.
It was slow,
but smooth and assured.
Things like seasons, spruce saplings,
Cycles spinning round and round.
The way the greenest summer grass grew
where the man once lay.
Wild Change affected the gun,
as it was Wild then too.
Rust terrorized the metal,
winds and rain dug the butt into the ground.
The oak grew around it’s barrel.
In Wild Time, the gun became a strange, ineffective root.
And then the tree began,
for those familiar with the murmurs of trees,
to breathe the way omens breathe.
And it fell the way the man fell,
quickly and with a great crash,
but fast forgotten.
The gun fell into the leaves.
Quietly, it lay,
Rain, wind, Wild Time,
Soft earth became tough, packed,
centimeters became inches,
inches became, well, who knows.
Things moved even slower,
in Earth Time.
But the gun learned.
Learned to feel tremors,
learned to hear the aquifer.
Earth Time was slow,
but warm and assured.
Things like earthworms,
probing roots, freezing and thawing.
How it could still, inexplicably, sense night and day.
The gun, as time spun by,
as it faded in with the Earth,
stared Truth in face
Truth was slow,
but smooth and assured, warm,
There amongst the trees,
dancing with deer,
Truth was in the tremors,
deep in the aquifer,
tangled amongst roots.