It's a stupid question.
I've been asking it for years, almost out of reflex. I'll shut up about it. Pretty soon, all of this will pass, and I'll forget for a little while, and then when I'm buying milk at the grocery store, I'll see the soy milk, and think of that time I started buying soy milk to perfect my tea making abilities for your interests. And then it will be too late, I'll be thinking of you, the small squares in your eyes, the texture of your hands, those noises you make in-between words, you looking down, and you looking up, every detail brings me down more and more closer. Closer to what, you're no longer here. I'll be rubble, I'll be rubbish, down to the last detail.
It's a question of how do I just live with myself, how do I live with knowing.
I wonder what the statute of limitations is for your memory.
A question of knowing you are still out there, with a beating heart, a voice that speaks of so many special stories, eyes that pierce the soul, lost feet, and a face that changes at each moment. I can't seem to...
I haven't finished yet. Every detail, every grain that you have exposed, all the stones you have lifted over, and revealed the creeps and crawlies that were once my own details are now open wounds, are broken seals, film covered parishables. Harden, soften, broken down, consumed, and left behind. You'd call me crumb if you were here, you'd call me peddle, dust, chalky figure.
It's a question I try to forget. Swallow it down, and leave it to the decomposition of time.
Am I crazy? I'll come back to this and regret it. Meaning or meaningless, I don't want to forget, and alone these memories will be the faint light that lost animals follow. I'll point to the unknown, I'll speak of something no one will ever understand, and I will leave.