On a Visit to My Former Home: The door was familiar and I softly pushed it open, fingertips, left-hand. Quick breath in.
.
the air tastes of foreign lives.
.
Breathe out. Purse down: a darker puddle-crumb staining ice-clean linoleum. I skated to the far end of this familiar darkness. Lightswitch found and suddenly — light and nerves click and roll as if a pulse was thrown through fluorescent glass in brilliant echos sounding
.
flashing?
.
from the last tangible edge of memory. I came down from the heights and only a ghost remained in the beams and shadows: too pale to wholly make out.
.
All of the edges blur at the corners and I am left alone in the present.
