Falling asleep, drifting fading in and out. It is then, only then I remember. Sweet voice I hear you and then you are gone, faded into the night like a whisper of a dream sequence, like mist that rode in and then dissolved, blown away by quiet heavy air that came in when we weren’t looking.
Disappeared.
I can smell the spring chill now, feel the perfume on my skin, it lingers to tell me that once upon a time I knew you, once upon a time long ago. The memory of you is left like a footprint. But no embodiment or ripeness to wrap my fingers around, no door on which to rap, no.
Waking to a memory of a memory of a memory–a reflection in a glassy pond in summer’s fading light at 9 o’clock in the evening as the frog’s croak out their love songs, by a gas station with an ancient stationwagon under sharp florescent lights which reflect the fumes and turn pretty girls into stone, by a hotel room on a country road an hour before curfew, in a driveway, bold girl wandering out in the night to say good bye and not let you leave not let you leave not let you leave. Curl my fingers around yours, drop my keys, not let you leave.

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