What were the flowers on your long blue dress
were they irises?
What was the feel of your skin like
on my skin?
And the small wet white star which fell out of your mouth —
oh! —
I can’t see anything now
by its light.
Not the room with the candles and the wedding guests
drifting like smoke to a languid bossa nova.
Not the walk into the garden
in the stillness, the ripples in the pool
of the frog scooting through spawn gently
disturbing the full moon.
Not the JAL plane
trundling out onto the runway
pregnant with fates
bringing cicadas to snowflakes.
None of it.
Nothing, but…

Slowly all the buildings turn to dreams.
The nights in clubs, the taxis gliding home through traffic,
your head full of bland anthems and generic remixes…
Slowly all the good times and the bad times, and the in-between times,
and all the other times
turn into the same time, and the light, and the skies…
And the past rises like a flood,
stealing the land of the present away
around you…

At first the waterbeads and the kisses get mixed up.
Then the kisses turn to flowers, or to cafés, to late flights.
Love turns to other love, then to something a little like love,
then to whatever you happen to need
to make yourself feel good when, if the truth be told,
you are not good.
And the universe with its heroes and its goons,
its Shangri-las  and happy hours, its peaks and troughs,
continues gradually to pulp down
to a kind of paste which churns and writhes
and sometimes keeps you awake at night,
but more often
lets you go on sleeping…

Slowly all the cities turn to clouds.
We film them floating through the window of the rented car.
Wait for her under a violet umbrella sporadically lit
with the cream neon from a sportswear sign.
Watch the skyscrapers dissolve in rain.
Over time, inevitably, you become
more and more memory,
the world shimmers memorial,
haunted with musks and echoes.
But you can’t actually reach
the things of your memory.
You can’t actually touch
the loves left inside you.
Sleep in the humid city in the East.
The dark room with the shutters,
the view of the ships,
the black hardwood bed.
One day, you think,
all this will be rendered
immaterial.
One day,
all this will be remembered.

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