your freshly cut hair fluffed up
around your face, held to your magnetic
pull like the mechanics of static cling.
here is where my memory gets faulty,
dancing around the pearl-dotted grass
beneath trees, refusing, in its soft way—
to acknowledge a less rosy retrospection.
here is where the night closes in.
I remember this best because I was afraid.
there are few pictures of this time, and a
sadistic part of me wishes I hadn’t hidden
here is where the moon stretches over the tress, and
awakes something in my heart that yearns without knowing
here is where the story ends, as all good stories do (and like all
good stories, I suppose it goes on in the mind of the listener for an uncertain
infinity, taking up as much blooded space
as the heart needs.)