Edges of Memory

The Colors of My Memories

A little bit off.
A little bit blurred.
Reds more yellow… Blues more green…
The light a little darker than before.

And the music,
narrative scores of the past
are soft and slow,
not made for moving to
sometimes with rhythm… Other times without…

Just simple songs
Making footprints in the air

around what can be remembered

Music sung by no voice ever known
Mingled with images of eyes closing sleepily,
and hands floating through the air.

Were we dancing?

I don’t know.

Time seemed to have taken an edge, thin and sharp like a surgeons’s tool
and run the shining blade in abstract shapes,
cutting out the words, the voices, the moments,

everything that is deemed useless by some part of this scattered brain.

And then there are voices.
Loved by me,
the ones heard between whispered thoughts,
laughing in the unmeasured depths of my being,
To where echoes make melodies
in silence where hands can be heard
Clasping and folding togeather

Hands of love and hands of hate

Smiles that lopsided, falling
Into a place
That I just can’t quite remember.

When,
And where,
And why…

Why so beautiful on that day?

In all the clocks’ timeless faces seen

Did I make you so happy?

Gorgeous, you know…

The smile you wear is without a price,

Innocent Me of long ago.