Memories from Other Planets

Because sometimes you will know things even before you arrive there – because sometimes there is something to the colour in the air that is like something someplace different – the cool tile of a kitchen floor against my passed out chin is thankfully specific – or each minute’s just revision to us making the same motions – seventy percent of earth is covered up with oceans lakes and rivers and our little bodies, quivering outside are made up of the same percentage of that water, iodized and filled with salt to keep it nice and thin in winter – because sometimes when you splinter yourself into tiny inches, leaving a little bit here, some more there, wherever hidden places – all you will remember is that you’ve forgotten something. Sometimes on the breeze there is a melody or slumping line of notes off of a windchime. My waterlogged mind cannot rewind these small parts quick enough to make up any difference. All you will remember is there’s something else that’s missing – when the houses change to nothing more than empty little buildings, when the roadways stay the same but take you far beyond the wilting path that lead to somewhere secret. Sometimes on the breeze I hear it like the noise a lighthouse lamp makes calling ships into the harbor. Or else we’ll end up somewhere that we’ve been but now it’s darker out and colder still and quieter. Your pocket holds a lighter that you don’t remember buying. God forgive me now for trying

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~ by perfectionatrix on August 23, 2012.

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