with every memory that steps forward
there is the light that gives it shape, form, and substance
the images of people. the images of their faces
there is a wind that blows the sound of voices and tastes of drinks
but then there’s a scorching. there’s a burning, a searing that holds more depth than the gradients that illuminated it.
there’s a stench, there’s a sourness. there’s a bitterness and a melancholy.
all within a single exhale.
and it’s only here when i say to myself
“don’t forget the inhale”
