Out of body.
Out of body.
I picture you, sometimes, on a summer night on the hood of your car at the top of the hill. In and out of thoughts that merge with dreams, but it’s the feeling that gets you, probably. It swells in your throat at first and then dissipates into the rest of your body, lifting into the pleasant atmosphere and leaving you dustless. I can see you clearly. I’m a leaf leftover from autumn’s scatter that has survived winter’s deep and spring’s wet degradation. I have dried. Wispy, and brown, though I am, I can easily zoom in the night time breeze. But for now I drift ‘round your face. Your eyes are closed and I wonder if you’ve ever wondered what your eyelids look like, softly shut. I think they look like seashells—so brilliantly smooth. I wonder if anyone else has thought that. But me, I’ve since crumpled. A result of a good trampling. (Those ruthless hikers, you know.) My memory became prey to my subconscious and now I’m something new. But it’s the feeling that gets me, I suppose. My feelings can channel memory further than my past. It’s possible. I look at you, sometimes, laying next to the current me—regenerated and human. I’m thinking I don’t believe in fate as I fix on your seashell eyes. I don’t believe in fate, but lately, it’s just that you’ve given a bit of Meaning to Coincidence, so it seems.
I picture you, sometimes, on a summer night on the hood of your car at the top of the hill. In and out of thoughts that merge with dreams, but it’s the feeling that gets you, probably. It swells in your throat at first and then dissipates into the rest of your body, lifting into the pleasant atmosphere and leaving you dustless. I can see you clearly. I’m a leaf leftover from autumn’s scatter that has survived winter’s deep and spring’s wet degradation. I have dried. Wispy, and brown, though I am, I can easily zoom in the night time breeze. But for now I drift ‘round your face. Your eyes are closed and I wonder if you’ve ever wondered what your eyelids look like, softly shut. I think they look like seashells—so brilliantly smooth. I wonder if anyone else has thought that. But me, I’ve since crumpled. A result of a good trampling. (Those ruthless hikers, you know.) My memory became prey to my subconscious and now I’m something new. But it’s the feeling that gets me, I suppose. My feelings can channel memory further than my past. It’s possible. I look at you, sometimes, laying next to the current me—regenerated and human. I’m thinking I don’t believe in fate as I fix on your seashell eyes. I don’t believe in fate, but lately, it’s just that you’ve given a bit of Meaning to Coincidence, so it seems.