Moments
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... a step, and I stop to rest after a long climb upwards, I wrap my shawl more tightly around my shoulders - the summer heat doesn't reach up here - only the devout, and the tourists, and the keepers of promises ... and he makes me take off my leather jacket, he thinks I'm violent, he thinks I've got a knife hidden in the folds of Brando reminiscence, he thinks I'm hiding something, but I'm not ... this is for you, he says, and passes me a small toy, made by hand, made by him, I have it still, its paisley hide soft and coloured red like oxygenated blood ... you're like a puzzle with a piece missing, he said, it's like someone reached inside of you and stole the light, I was buried though, and suffocating, and becoming stagnant and stale, my light comes in tiny spurts now, and I don't think I'm quite so broken anymore ... he laughed, they all laughed, as I walked by the open door unseen, and heard him say - she thought I'd kiss her - the meanness of youth, as I slunk back to the living room in shadows, and joined the group, pretending I'd heard nothing, but I never forgot it ... I saw that purple hat from far away, she said, laughter in her voice, and I knew it had to be you, it's hot and humid, and she's got to work tomorrow, I am grateful she came to pick me up, and grateful to be home ... don't let anyone take you, she said, as she got out of the car in the store's parking lot, and it was the most off-the-cuff cute thing I'd ever heard, and I never forgot it, and I don't forget my friend ... I've seldom seen such a pretty thing, the graceful white arcs open to the sky, open to people, and atop the hill like a delicate bird, we all come, we all stand, we all point around, looking for landmarks and smiling, and glad to be here, and looking at the river's ribbon below our feet ... she's so cold, he said, so cold, and I locked away a little more of what was me, and I realised long after, that you shouldn't let the inhuman stoccato speech, so casually uttered, of men of little consequence, affect you, you're too good for that kind of drab ... and I lay in my bed, long past midnight, long after everyone else was asleep, and I could hear the masts of boats tinkle like bells, softly, the tinkling like a lullaby after a sunset of rich ruby and ochre you could almost wet your hands in ... and there they are, my dreams on bits of paper, on ticket stubs and maps, in photographs and endless script, in the backs of drawers and boxes, stacked knee high, on shelves, in my hands, and always with me ...