(no subject)
I don't think of her often now. Only occasionally do I find myself running soft pads of fingers over the contours of the memories she has left me with. There are the notes scrawled on the backs of framed posters that sit dutifully stacked with others in the attic. I wonder when the thing of it, the mountain of those moments will come charging up, breaking waves and making itself present and immovable. I wonder when I will find myself enveloped again in the sanguine safety of ourselves wrapped in ourselves. Right now I don't know how to touch it. Where to find it. But I know it is there.