A Trip, a Stumble, the Fall

I tripped on memory and it tasted of salt and sand. It burned like dry ice. It smelled of coconut and fresh mown grass.

I tripped on memory and stitches tore, flesh broke, and dried blood became fluid.

I tripped on memory and saw our time through the lens of the dark green waters of the lake, swimming between mustard reeds and olive snapping turtles.

I tripped on memory and heard the words which echoed in the cool damp breeze of the slate sky before the thunder clapped.

I tripped on memory and met myself. You were never there.