Leaving

In the thick heat, midsummer,
Little chinks of nostalgia, like cut glass,
wrinkle the edges of swollen air.

One bench. Beneath a tree.
Lies forlorn. Expecting.
Sparrows scatter and regroup.
Regroup and scatter.
Tremors of a branch, as it sweats,
Unhinges a leaf.

Memory falls onto the bench.

When all the words pass into a void,
Where does that void go?
Black holes move.

Time bubbles. Spews forth a torrent
of disjointed glass mirrors,
Reflecting a disjointed existance.
But real.
Heart wrenching.
Real.

The monsoons are coming.
With a layer of warm, drizzling nostalgia,
Of last year.
Of time.
Of change.

Remebrance.