Unmoored Moments

The scent of rain,

years later,

brings back the scraped knee.

A flash of red on grey pavement.

Then, the quiet hum of the refrigerator,

midnight, 2042.

I’m still wearing that sweater.

The one with the hole in the elbow.

Did I darn it yet?

Probably not.

The ocean breathes, a slow exhale,

and I’m a child again,

building castles that the tide will claim.

The salty air stings my eyes,

just like the disappointment

when the tower crumbled.

A bird sings outside the window,

a melody I haven’t heard before,

or maybe one I knew in a dream.

It’s the same song the wind sang

through the willow tree

the day we said goodbye.

The coffee is too hot.

My fingers burn, a fleeting sting.

Like the words left unsaid,

hanging in the air,

a weight I’ll carry tomorrow.

A laugh echoes,

not mine, but familiar.

Perhaps it’s the ghost of a shared joke,

a flicker in the periphery.

The moon is a sliver,

a promise of fullness.

I remember the full moon,

painting the fields silver,

the night the fireflies danced.

A car horn blares,

sharp and sudden.

It jolts me from the stillness,

from the quiet unraveling.

Back to this room,

this moment,

which feels like a thousand moments

all at once.

The dust motes dance in the sunlight,

tiny, forgotten galaxies.

They’ve seen it all,

these specks of light,

the laughter, the tears,

the endless unfolding.

And I am just one more ripple

in their vast, silent expanse.

The taste of lemon,

sharp and bright,

a memory of summer afternoons.

The dog barks, a sudden alarm.

Did I lock the door?

I think I did.

But then again, maybe not.

The way the light catches the dust,

a golden haze.

That was yesterday.

Or maybe it was last week.

The chill in the air,

a premonition of winter.

The smell of old books,

a comfort that spans decades.

The echo of a forgotten song,

humming just below the surface.

The warm weight of a cat on my lap,

a present moment,

solid and true.

But even that will fade.

Like the ink on a letter,

smudged by time.

The weight of the teacup,

warm in my hands.

A memory of your hands,

holding the same cup,

a lifetime ago.

The future, a blur of possibilities.

The past, a collection of snapshots,

some sharp, some faded.

And here I am,

caught between them,

a breath held,

a moment unmoored.

The silence after the rain,

a gentle hush.

A forgotten promise,

whispered on the wind.

The gleam of polished wood,

reflecting a face I almost recognize.

The taste of salt,

on my lips,

from a tear,

or the sea.