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werewolf]
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To know that i could recreate those days perfectly, would be to really know something.
It would also slightly unmoor me. If my memories were slightly more real, wouldn't you, and the field we crawled each other through, be sligthly less?
To not be able to capture the light angles, the cones of grass, the fragrance of a million nets of air, cast off of the sea, off of a bird's wings, children clapping -
well this is expected, accept and surrender slide together when faced with such complexity.
I can pick out colors and sounds, defining features, moments that match the word emerald or lips,
but that moment of inundation, that chasing of a changing is gone, it has changed.
But to not be able to capture you. You and I who are supposed to be the one thing that can offer ourselves up and say,
"no it wasn't just general, it was specifically this"
if i have lost you, if all that remains are grass stains on worn jeans, knowing you had dyed your hair, a joke about an old woman in pink riding a skateboard, and a feeling so strong as my lips broke through my own walls to where yours waited that i remembered how it felt for months after, but now only remember the remembering, the waiting for it to come again, the sadness that it did not.
if i have forgotten the exactness in you, i have forgotten the same in me who held you. and exactness is what separates lovers from fools.
surrender is accepted as familiar, not foreign.
these are not alien shapes and smells around us, interchangeable backgrounds, but a unity,
a sweeping and forgetful thing.
our warm watery bodies smear slower than the hugging molecules of grass, our mind deals in tracers.
the memory of you though, dancing outside of my heart's grasp, pulls it into the ether, like only like atoms can.
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