It was supposed to be a retreat.
A weekend.
An introspection, a meditation.
Morning and quiet, walks in the woods.
The pine needles, scented. Soft sand underfoot.
A lake, the coolness of water, sun-dappled.
Evenings, the mice in the cabin and moths on the windscreen.
Building a bonfire, embers glowing.
Ashes on air currents, rising, a shimmering.
Something ignites. It carries a woman.
She records it in pencil, the refraction, a specter.
A man between her thighs and a friction that passes for love.
It burns, so she goes to the water. To the beginning.
Night on the rocks, their arms barely brushing.
Restless hands, before the touching.
Ache between words, a leaden quiet.
For the one kiss, she dives into dark waters.
Finds instead too many years gone.
So tiring, this swimming. She’s forgotten so much, the everything.
To the last breath, her eyes track a small paper boat.
It meets the horizon as bubbles meet air.
Her notebook, a white flag, waves in the shallows come morning.