my brother told me last year:

to lock hands is to share a soul. so then, he treats all connections like a

needle prickle: touch and flinch away.

 

contact is another name for fellowship. in the latter is the enigma of fate. 

why would a man stand on the mouth of a road and

gaze at the memories of those who have left as though they

were silhouettes becoming full of life and colour 

and skin with each step that brings them close? 

 

what are memories but illusions of newness?

 

last week, someone who has left gazed into the abyss, and

their legs were soon in the air, flailing,

their memories of us were sinking in the pit.

 

can you not wait?

can you not stay?

 

did you have to fall headlong and chase the shadows?

did your voice have to echo in the pit?

 

those who have left have shed their scents.

i grab their smells and mould them in the

way of a snowman, in the likeness of a god.

 

i place the god on a pedestal. 

and i go on my knees, my head bowed in

reverence as i mutter a prayer:

that this creation keep me close. that its soul be merged with

mine.

 

lest my voice echo in some pit.