Vesper on Remembering

by Abner Dormiendo

She renounced her fear to me.
As we speak, the waves
were still hitting our sand-soaked feet.

She thew the question across
the placid lake of my eyes, held
her breath as she waited
for the ripples I had to reply.
But the weight of the matter
made the most silent splash.

Who will remember, and for how long?
She knew she will disappear soon—
or was it these things that disappear
when she departs, like the day
sinking in the distance, that warmth
now untouchable yet imaginable, memorable?

She is gone now as I sit here
where we once were,
trying to remember her.
but is she entirely what I remember
her to be? Time makes
a faulty man out of me,
sinks the fragments of her memory
in the deepest trenches of my mind.

To look back at her
is to peer at this dark,
to separate this shadow from that,
cutting outlines in a lightless night

Like how, as I remember her,
the colors of night bleeds through
boats, trees, rocks—gradients
to this dark sameness.

I need to know what she is
from what she is not,
but it is not as easy when time
pulls this sun quickly, inevitably,
to another part of this wholeness we call
world, or life, or isn’t it
this life and this world the same thing?

Isn’t this darkness enough
to say that she was there,
shining in another unknown part
of this vastness I am living?

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FB Creative Challenge: sunset

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