forgettery

i remember when it was harder for me to meet people then it is now, and i remember when it was easier. i yo-yo back and forth. i forget what's important, then i remember. i like to turn big rocks gently over and watch the squirming paths of worms and centipedes and doodlebugs twisting through the earth. i like to sit on the stoop and watch the kids on bikes wheel up and down the street, or the families yelling to one another, leaning out to toss keys out of second story windows. i like to ride my bike on cool windless nights down the empty industrial corridors, past open doors where sparks fly and machines hum, past the quiet storefronts and mysterious factories and never ever ever have to stop for lights. i like to take long walks through alleys, to the record store or the park or your house, collecting treasures as we go. to snip cuttings of plants and watch them root and grow in old juice bottles on our kitchen sill, the fragile stems too tender yet for outside air. i like to wear mismatched socks, to cook and share and sit around the kitchen table longer than we mean to.

i barely remember school. i barely remember austria, or a month ago, even. i want a little bit of everything back, but i don't think i'm the same shape and size and hue to stick myself in the outlines of where i used to be, again. everyone is taking off, these days, and everyone is looking for new places but i'm still sort of shyly looking for new pieces of myself. recollection is a funny thing. she says all we need is a slight affirmation and we'll fool ourselves each time. he hopped a bus again, and then we all gathered to watch the lightning, like dogs turning in circles to lie down.