In the back of my head.
Words trickle,
Trickle out.
A poem I can’t remember
Formed of words I can’t forget
The way stones know their wet,
But know nothing at all.
The words, like water
Rushing over the rocks
Taking tiny fragments of me.
With them.
Somewhere else,
Eroding,
Erupting,
An inopportune moment
I should have had a notebook.
With me.
At all times.
To write it down.
I can almost taste them
The words
On my tongue
All sticky and stuck
Sediment in the creek
The taste of days gone by
Water moved on
Of cafes and restaurants and coffee shops
Of joy and laughter
Without knowing there was an end
An end.
Coming.
Rushing towards us.
After all that we have been through,
That we did not see
Yet have to comprehend
The words won’t come
The smile won’t stay
The rhythm and the pace
I’m waterlogged today.
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A Tuesday Latte 