the last part of a memory
erases itself as we rush along its pathway
as we run out of things to say
the swaying —
the unimaginable amount
of nights filled with
cat-like appearances
stumbling upon a picture
and all I want is to grasp
that moment again
seize it
take it if I may
so I could maybe say something
on how I might have felt and
reclaim that slightest piece of home
the roaming recovered
the soft carpet of the old house
nina simone chanting in the background —
almost whispering
and our bodies fading to just there

-D.