Everyday memory ends up only the way we say it. This luckless day, that loveless night. Only these sentences crumpled against our teeth, only this light bent with-in the lens. Words only leant to the mystery and the wind. The riddles fiddled out in scratchy breaths and purring neglect. The puzzle only known for the pieces. The little dog yapping though there is every reason to laugh.
There are secrets pressed against every shadow. There are strangers waiting at every intersection of the endless road. Our bones write down each note and lilt, the song composed before our births. Chance and partings, the falling cow and the misplaced moon. The sky denied all levity, the music entangled as the words unwind. Meaning stuck in the corners, meaning caught in dust.
The stories began before they were stories, the words only breath and bite. They circle the fire, they nestle in the sparks. They touch each star in restless exodus, they burrow beneath those runaway utensils. We carry them into moonlight and sleepwalk. We rub them against our teeth, we swaddle them in our arms. Every day a sentiment left in a dark hallway cluttered with trash and ghosts.