in my sleep, my precious dreams, I come home. It is unchanged from my last memory; the sun just risen over a beautiful summer's day, my tears only quelled by my unsuspecting, verisimilar faith I would return.
and return I have, if only in the lands of the night's stories and the day's distractions. The truth behind these tales, once my lighthouse in the storm, has been pulled from under my feet.
I fall, no floor to catch me, no other plan ever sought, yet I land softly.
I am under the tree by the gate, rays bright through the leaves. The statue in the garden stands tall, those honored below it still engraved into the heart of our hearts. The flag still waves in front of the lodge and as I walk in, I see that the tables are still in the hall.
our last family dinner was still only days ago, in this hall. The stairwell, to the left, is still an eruption of color. the walls call from the past, twenty years ago, ten years, two. The art room is still only steps away.
My handprint is still on the back of the door.
everything is still. a perfect mimicry, an empty shell. a memory. It isn't mine anymore. The next people to work here, play here, love here will do so in ignorance. We cannot tell them our stories.
“will you remember us when we cannot remember ourselves?” I ask the trees
“will you remember us when the walls have collapsed?” I ask the lake
“will you remember us when the trees have fallen?” I ask the sun
“will you remember us when the lake is dry?” I ask the atoms that make up my body and the walls and the trees and the sun
“will you remember us when everything else is gone?”
Matter cannot be created or destroyed. it cannot remember, either. I ask anyways.
the cool fall wind blows and the gravel beneath my feet shifts until I am falling with the leaves. The landing is harsh.
“It is October,” it reminds, “Soon it will be winter. soon everything will be gone, and nothing can replace what you've lost.”
Plans dashed, lighthouse extinguished, I lay here, gutted. My only meager solace is that the pain is only as great as what was lost. “It will always have happened,” I say.
“It will never happen again.” says the wind.
the specter of an incandescent summer hangs above me, sharp enough to take my head with it. In its reflection I see the reverse. My soul causes the lights to flicker in closets, my translucent visage only just visible through the trees. would it be enough to simply haunt this old haunt, if I never had to leave?
These, still, are dreams, both gift and taunt. For I can imagine my homecoming as long as I wish, but I always will imagine it.
I'll always wish to see you again. always.
I will hold your memory, if I cannot hold your hand.
janainaart
yousharknotpass
dededos
blakekathryn
vaporwave
romaincrisis
2087
