It is a soft thing, my memory
of you, gentle like a pond reed
yielding to my dream hands
so keen on shaping what is
into what was.
They mold us together
like mud and stones
to dam the trickle of time.
We were harmonious
a season ago.
They don’t care to know
of our decomposition,
that all kinds of fishes
have nibbled us away.
Not lost, just dislodged. Free
to skip along the riverbed
or hitch a ride in the jetstream
of a prismatic trout. That is
what it’s about, isn’t it?
In the end?
A slow erosion
of broken pieces
until we’re smoother,
more stable,
better friends.
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