Sunset.

I took down my hair and flew through the yellow lights. Each intersection had a woman on the corner, waiting for their chance to move. I flew to you.
Later, I ate with you but looked at the sky alone, with a quiet and sole interpretation.
I asked, “I wonder how many times we’ve looked at a sky, called it beautiful, and then completely forgotten it?” I asked.
You said. “All I heard was ‘completely forgotten’,” you said.
Grinning, I explained why that fleeting moment was ironic.
In that moment, we were the sky.

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Sunset.

Ego Death.

I remember every face I meet and the name it owns.  This seems like an interesting addition to a résumé and a useful parlor trick to use once the party is over.  It should be but not when growing up and making mistakes in a city that fits in between a couple of hills we collectively decided to call mountains.  The bodies of the faces saunter and snicker and carry on, passing by like it means something to me.  It does.  I remember every moment.  The emotions they left with me.  The secrets they told me.  Annoyance makes my pulse radiate heat, just like how pavement feels on a southern day in July.  Even though I regularly cut ties without much motive, I still reserve the right to selfishly froth in my own ill wishes.  It’s only when they pass and I remain unnoticed am I shaken back into my senses.  I realize it’s likely they’ve gone another day without thinking of me.  It’s vexing to be overlooked.  It festers and grows, turning real individuals into memories and ideas as flat as newspaper.  No one has ever ignored me.  They’ve just been walking past me, engrossed in their own valid thoughts.

Ego Death.

Recollection.

Everything I have ever loved has had a previous owner.  I carry the treasures of others securely in the crook of my arm and pretend they’re mine.  A jacket my father stained with sweat around the collar and cuffs.  A pendant given to my sister made of onyx and gold.  Field guides from thrift stores with inscriptions and bookmarks and cramped annotations.  These are my pickings.  Stolen nostalgia is piling up around me.  It’s warming me through the winter, but I want to find my own way out.  When will I begin creating my own trail of artifacts?  Who will want to exhume my spirit?

Recollection.