683. of notes and dreams

Trev had fallen asleep, sheets stained of pen, parchment held loosely in hand. Em carefully tucked his pillow under his head, pulled the sheets upon his shoulder and with his note in her hand, began to read:

I was to gather upon cobbles, my feet; and old brick, my shoulders. Where leaves, burnt of life golden and orange and withered brown, spun from trees as letters scorned. Where the days flow by with the bus-i-ness of nothing, of faces blank and buses red. Where the sounds that matter lie within and my eyes see a land that was once, of hills and stone, where the sun clocked the day and the moon occasioned stolen kisses in the trellised cold. Where, if I close my eyes as children do, she is there, flowing, a river unto herself of bends and twists. And it is here, upon this vista, this woman, as wave to breaker, I find myself flung. Again, and again the slap of wet stone, heaving, exhaling. What is left of me, but to come again, to throw myself, to leap with all the force of moon and gravity, to abandon convention and trope and become as the mist, sparkling but a moment before the sun reclaims me and I die in the warmness of fingers felt but not seen.