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Memory is at best a shattered glass,

the shards strewn across the floor, and

I have not the time nor patience to

fit and glue all the pieces together.


I know it's there, the memory I seek, and

eventually it rears its head like an index card in

the catalog of an ancient library

that holds no books.


I see faces but no names, strangers, and

I tick, tick, tick through the alphabet,

hoping to trigger and cement

a neural connection that sometimes comes.


I used to worry that the lapses

might lead to the end of me, but

whatever the state of my mind,

my imagination will create, through my pen,


all I need to know and believe.

What is truly real anyway?

I close my eyes, calm my restless heart, and

the image, recalled, comes into focus:


I see hair the color of the dark chocolate paste

under the outer shell of a walnut, and

feel ghostly tingling in my fingers as

fine threads of silk pass through them.


A mask of porcelain,

tinted by a sun

south of the border,

near flawless.


Eyebrows that come

together as one when

left to their own devices

of natural progression.


A mouth so perfect

it need not speak

to tell me everything

that is in the heart.


And eyes that lead me

to a place of comfort,

pigmented with hues of the

mountainsides of Montana,


reflecting the meaningful

along with the meaning,

flashing a sparkle, a glint of

light from the big bang,


reminding me of everyone

I have ever loved, and

that image will remain

with me forever.