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Remembering

i.



I rarely remember the bridge and that only lonely evening, where the season was changing its colors, and I stood, like the children stood on snowy days, looking out the window, at those two flocks of geese soaring past the city bridge. I rarely remember the section of the bridge that are your big eyes and straight nose, a smiling mouth with two dimples, the dimples of the boys that are very sweet, but I do not remember this bridge any further. Easily as the boats sway from dock to dock, the waters cover the time of our life.



Under our aimless boat is another world, a world split when we made that decision under the heartless sun. The river covers the time of our life and the fisherman’ paddles dissolve our moments sometimes. I keep my eyes closed because I want to break like a fever, of the way the soft river makes way foreverything.



In the transience of the seasonal changes, we have all lost someone.



ii.



I told you to forget me, forget the way our movements merged with the twisted arch of a soaring forest, forget the crimson explosions of the print of the breakfast table, and most of all forget how my eyes seem to cave in and cast shadows as loud as the fighting couple next door. How the emptiness of your expression is as silent and as loud as the screams of the people falling down buildings in terminal velocity, I have forgotten. I slide my metro card over the sensor, the automated door accepts my existence as a mechanically designed sensor detects the weight of my body, and I am assured that I am still alive. The matter in my body, the billions of ambulant cells and atoms swerving like an early morning of new york city, promises me that I am still breathing like the surface of a burning map.



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