There he is, the morning of.
It is summer and he feels good in his skin. Stretched to the corners of his life, filling them out. Everything is as it should be; he is where he should be. He’s solid here, close to the ground, nothing shifting underneath him.
There he is. Oblivious and satisfied, this morning of.
Oblivious: Unaware. Without memory.
Oblivion then, is this. All that stays unknown. There are fires forgotten, under that skin. Little licks in his veins he tries to out-run. Thinking flames can be exhausted this way. Not knowing a single spark can revive.
And how close he is to burning, now.
There. Here. There he is.
He’s out the door, and the sky is blue, and he’s running along, not knowing her name. He’ll hear it today, this name, for the very first time. Unaware of the dreams she’ll soon gather, of the clocks and counting just ahead.
He doesn’t know that he will remember. And that she is his memory, waiting.
(I never, not for a single day, forget)