I hear the thunder, but never see the lightning. Imperceptible memory. There’s a storm coming I might say. A storm came. Touching blue. Feeling the bruised bits of self. Seeing red- not the waving flag nor the sword.
Passing through moments and coming out the other side as residual. On the battlefield, I’m a ghost. I digest the moment by another’s insight, another’s memory. My own core cracked. A dropped egg- what leaks cannot be returned to natural holding. To mark the moment, I make quick sketches of what I’ve seen. Will see.
I fear this remembrance style will fade into the feeling. I shiver. Convulse. Shock treatment. Imperceptible memory. Of something. Have I changed tenses again?
I marinate in each moment. Taking on the flavor of of yelling. Of yellow. Voracious. Ferocious. Both. Then
nothing. The lightning strikes. Why am I counting? Imperceptible memory. At least I have you to fall back on.
AbyKittiwake 