In memory of

Perhaps, on this day, with the sun, the earth and words breaking over the pavement like thoughts, I will say to you, hello. Within the memory of early mornings, the air fresh and slightly cold, at least there is a language, a gift, an open hand that fills with broken thoughts and breathlessly empty space.

**

He stood on his terrace looking into the courtyard twenty three stories below, not seeing the children playing, not feeling the sun nor the cerulean sky. He jumped at four o’clock in the afternoon from his terrace to the pavement, utterly still, ushering in eternal solitude.

It was a simple day; the past terminates in this moment. It was spring. It was four o’clock in the afternoon. It was Monday, the first day of the week, a beginning, an end.

**

You enter pain. Let it drop swiftly into your body like a stone that falls from today’s clear cerulean sky; recall what it means to live in a moment that has been surrendered to time.

Your foot falls asleep; familiar numbness tingles imperceptibly beneath skin.

What is universal, but the passage of time, the inevitability of hunger, of entrances and exits, shadow and light—

Disparate words and thoughts fall like stones and rest inside your quiet bones. What did you say? Why did you sigh? What do you remember?

You are silent. There are too many words and not enough voices, too many melodies nestled inside your cupped palm, broad, callused and waiting.