Having once been set in motion, peering down the crooked alleys of my bloodstream, I am unable to pull the more wistful sections of my lower brain away from the memory of the soft whorl of an ear. Like a brighter drop of rain shining on an everyday diamond, or the first breath at the end of a long good-luck tunnel. Like hearing a steel drum somewhere underneath your favorite song. Impossible to both articulate and live without, felt somewhere in the backs of your knees and the small of your back.
A half-forgotten poem of an image waiting just behind my left eye clears its throat, remembering. Had we yet made it past the borders of this city, to a town with miles of empty windy coastline, I might have fallen asleep in the sand with my head on your leg, a fistful of your shirt clutched in my childish hand. Not safe, perhaps, but content.
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