I think about you now and then. That piece of dust you left on the windowsill for me. You know I thought it looked almost like ashes but felt like snow. Those embers you kept and lit paths across the stone. I think I am falling but I think it’s not far. The fall and the leaves and they looked like flames. A place-holder with wisps of smoke to spell out names. I think I lost yours somewhere and now I call you everything else but who you are.
He said that you could hear it. The silence. That it was filled up with the shape left behind by bare feet on snow and the color of cinnamon fried in a pan until right before it burns and
Now he decided to give up speaking as a way of making alms. The words were gifts for other people. Stones and glittering gems and the edge of an arc of light and now and now, and now
When it falls it falls with a startling grace like some perfect glass bauble that shatters but cannot break.
I read once that there are over a million types of prayers. I don’t know if this is true or was just the author overstating things. There were examples, not many, but enough to give some sense of what the author was talking about, and only one really stuck out to me. It was the prayer to say upon witnessing lightning. There was no explanation for it and so I wondered why someone might pray then. Was it to keep the lightning from yourself? To keep the storm at bay? To save the one you love from the sound of you crashing? To stop that flash of white from blinding you? I never used that prayer but sometimes I still think about it. Never during storms, but afterward when I’m lying in bed and thinking about the way the thunder broke around me. I’ll remember that prayer and wonder why I never thought to use it, even once just to see what it might do.
Lemonade stands in retrospect always seem perfect. Those quarter-priced cups of sweet edged sour tasted like the sun made cool on the hottest days of the year. Sure, we drank most ourselves and we earned, maybe, a dollar each. Those quarters were great to throw down wishing wells or to place on train tracks. Flattened to silver shimmers as we watched the cars speed away to the places we thought we’d end up.
Believe the things I tell you late at night. I speak in tongues only when I forget to speak any other way. I’ve told you 15 things I didn’t mean to and there are seven things that I meant to. I once sorted out the writing I did in my dreams and all of the pieces of paper bled ink into me until it leaked from my hands like stigmata. There is a city in my dreams that I always go to and in it the street forgets where it’s going sometimes and if you tell me once that you dreamed of maps that changed I’d believe you enough to say three more things I mean.