the net we call life's dreams
/7/
He thinks about her a lot, even after
that fleeting meeting of theirs is done, because
he can't brush off that feeling: that familiarity,
nor that aching pang in his chest, that claims
he knows that girl from somewhere –
But his memory of that time is still scraps
of frayed thread drifting down in the snow,
and there is too much useless snow: empty crystals
of ice that hold no secrets or answers with them inside,
just the cold…
But there are those precious few that do have something more:
a whisper of a memory long torn to pieces and gone
but thread was good that way: it broke into pieces but still existed,
fine, fine threads that could come together a different way,
weaker…or perhaps stronger, than before.
He knows of her from before, he is sure
and he'll find that answer eventually, through more meetings
despite how unlikely that is, or through dreams
of returning memories…
but now the sleeping fox has been awakened
and he cannot pretend he doesn't want to know
anymore.
