It’s hard to forget how you looked in the sunlight between the trees in the clearing that day you almost drove us off the road. I should have been scared but I wasn’t. Maybe I was a little bit scared.
You hung your head in your green winter cap and air billowed out of your mouth and nose like a deflating bull at the end of long run. Shamed and sullen you told me…
What did you tell me? I can’t remember. That’s the problem, isn’t it? I can never remember. That’s because I don’t remember words — they’re like maggots, too many of them constantly burrowing and flexing through my brain that I can’t actually recall them all.
Instead, I remember feelings. I remember moments and color and textures and warmth. I remember past and futures and parallel lines. I remember the look in your eyes as the sunlight hit the left side of your face and I followed you deeper into the forest.
If you squint your eyes hard enough, all binaries become one. If you quiet your mind long enough, and scoop out all of the words with a cupped hand, truth becomes evident. Don’t let it overwhelm you. The only answer is silence.