I left you in the lake of my last memory. Your shoreline skimmed the top of my
mind and your breeze pixilated my world view into trees the size and texture of
thimbles, mountains lost and upside down, like a slide of my father on a 1950’s
camping trip. We never climbed the mountain, just rippled its face with small,
dark stones. Your hand was solid, warm, and the beginning. Now I crave you in
grainy color, in this crevice my knuckle fits into, the dusk-worn opposite of my
Inspired by the photograph “Reflect” by Heidi Mae Niska.