I used to walk by the foot of eroded cliffs, my
hand tracing the cracks and the spirals of fossils, of
ancient shells: bones turned to stone and dust, and yet
still swirling at my fingertips. And I saw you then
for the first time, calcified and stripped down to the
barest outlines across the desiccated rock, like a
testament of things long gone. And yet you were
like the voice of friends long gone: distant, yet familiar
even as that image of you crumbled, oh so fragile, at
the wind’s first greeting. A photograph in bas-relief, I
thought you, to be so easily torn and stolen by the clumsy
breeze. Still I knew you now; had, with just that glimpse
of you, memorized the creases inscribed at your temples and
the lines on your palms crisscrossing like strands of hair
that perhaps once were carved out of white marble. I reached
for you, and my hands came back empty; between my fingers
whispered a void, and that void spoke of you. So I went
looking for you: into the cities and their carnivals of
lights and bodies, into the woods where life springs out
as streams from the earth, into the hills that rise in
solemn homage to history. I went in search of your name and
it was too light to be held, too cautious to be caught.
So I went deeper and there you were, in the dark waters
where as a child I had swum afraid and alone and alive;
I found you, flowing and breathing, like a myth come true:
with the tide twined around the hollows of your flanks
and the depths rising in a chorus of broken waves and
a hymn of salted sand, my voice drowning and my eyes
burning as I reached out, again, and touched—the contours
of your mouth, the charcoal shutters of your eyes, the
lacquered glimpses of your spine; and there was an ending
here, a book about to be closed. An ending, and a beginning too.
Spoiler
I used to go out at sea by night, when the skies were
clear and the stars pale and the moon obscure. I
would hold my breath and dive deep, deep into the dark,
where there was but myself, and silence, and fear.
And I used to walk by the foot of eroded cliffs, my
hand tracing the cracks and the spirals of fossils, of
ancient shells; bones turned to stone and dust, and yet
still swirling at my fingertips. And I saw you then
for the first time, calcified and stripped down to the
barest outlines across the desiccated rock, like a
testament of things long gone. And yet you were
familiar, so very familiar and whispering of home
even as that image of you crumbled, oh so fragile, at
the wind’s first greeting. A photograph in bas-relief, I
thought you, too easily torn and stolen by the clumsy
breeze. Still I knew you now; had, with just that glimpse
of you, memorized the creases inscribed at your temples and
the lines on your palms crisscrossing like strands of hair
that perhaps once were carved out of white marble. I reached
for you, and found uncharted lands within myself, that were
empty and void and bore your shape, and so I went
in search of you; into the cities and their carnivals of
lights and bodies, into the woods where life springs out
as streams from the earth, into the hills that rise like
monuments to history. I went in search of your name and
it was too light to be held, too cautious to be caught.
So I came back, and there you were, in the dark waters
where I once had swum afraid and alone and alive.
I found you by the waves, by the currents of far-off tides.
I found you in the depths and in the abysses, by the
swelling, murmuring crevices of deep sea-caves.
I found you, alive and breathing, like a myth come true.
I found you.
clear and the stars pale and the moon obscure. I
would hold my breath and dive deep, deep into the dark,
where there was but myself, and silence, and fear.
And I used to walk by the foot of eroded cliffs, my
hand tracing the cracks and the spirals of fossils, of
ancient shells; bones turned to stone and dust, and yet
still swirling at my fingertips. And I saw you then
for the first time, calcified and stripped down to the
barest outlines across the desiccated rock, like a
testament of things long gone. And yet you were
familiar, so very familiar and whispering of home
even as that image of you crumbled, oh so fragile, at
the wind’s first greeting. A photograph in bas-relief, I
thought you, too easily torn and stolen by the clumsy
breeze. Still I knew you now; had, with just that glimpse
of you, memorized the creases inscribed at your temples and
the lines on your palms crisscrossing like strands of hair
that perhaps once were carved out of white marble. I reached
for you, and found uncharted lands within myself, that were
empty and void and bore your shape, and so I went
in search of you; into the cities and their carnivals of
lights and bodies, into the woods where life springs out
as streams from the earth, into the hills that rise like
monuments to history. I went in search of your name and
it was too light to be held, too cautious to be caught.
So I came back, and there you were, in the dark waters
where I once had swum afraid and alone and alive.
I found you by the waves, by the currents of far-off tides.
I found you in the depths and in the abysses, by the
swelling, murmuring crevices of deep sea-caves.
I found you, alive and breathing, like a myth come true.
I found you.
.
Did I make sense?