Plein de choses à dire, plein d’excuses pour ne pas le faire
I still reach sometimes. In a second my mind shifts back and furtively I think. I think, this is not real. No, this is temporary. A mistake? Surely not. But still, sometimes, I reach. Not in my sleep. In my most awake and lucid moments, lightening strikes, a flashback. Or the ghost of a cut off limb. It’s poisonous blood slowly reaching my heart, already seeping in my mind. Cut off at last. But still lingering.
It seems at times I have no recollection of this.
I want to remember things that will happen. I want to have your mouth’s imprint on my breast. I want to have memories of travels we’ll take, far from our drowning innocence. I kept your letters, but I know them by heart. I’ve forgotten why I reach sometimes. For now I reach for you. For now you reach for me. I’m reached for. And that in itself is a memory already. Always.
This, I do.
Should it all end now, enough memories are written that I will never be alone anymore.
Because I have been reached for.
There are always more memories around the corner; people, places. Joy to share. Moments to treasure.
Mas