My eye snags on your ghost, detected in moonlight, along the throat of an ocean, shells rolling like teeth in a seafoam spit. Or a cabin buried in the woods, pine needles dipped in clouds to line the spongy steps of earth, a reminder of where we’re from, where we return, where we’ll meet again.
I lose focus of what’s in front of me waiting for you, the peripheral taking over so that I feel less human every day.
I don’t seek sadness, but it’s woven in the breeze, in the way snow bends a branch, or how the yoke of sun breaks day. In the flight of hummingbirds, my eyes follow feathered motions. A beckon. A disappearance. An echo.
I am always tracking sound, investigating sources, trying to recreate the pitch, the timbre to return me to the land of the living, wondering if you haunt the spaces I cannot see. I sense you everywhere and nowhere, and I am tired of the chase, your inhale pulling on the lace curtains, your exhale a fog spilling into the fields, a hum below the surface. I close my eyes, letting my animal brain turn feral, picking up the scent of you inside me, feeling more myself, more at home.