that night felt like a memory.
one locked in the deepest corners of a mind
left to years of dust and deep-seated heartache.
it was a ripple, sent to announce some
mysterious splendor to the inhabitants of one
glass-coated pond. Narcissus has been disrupted;
his unwavering gaze overthrown. beyond this mirror
lay the last moments of a night overgrown. I lean closer.
a small glint teases my eyes: my hand follows.
so small, so gentle, so very slim the odds seem.
of catching light, memory incarnate. the taste of
something just beyond the surface
forever close enough to see, but forever out of reach:
the whispers of an old friend, or the patter of
plum juice as it drips from a royal chin and
a nightsky painted red
(or perhaps lost in vain attempts of remembrance)
so gently pulses within my veins.
and so the ripple begins to fade, gently drawing water
to lap on the wistful shore. if only another tempered
grace would fall, reminding me to
break my gaze.
until then I watch the glimmer playing below the sky -
no, its aquatic sister - and let the wind weave
cautious notes of eternity amongst the stars.