There is a wind who blows through me.
It is more important than my name, and it is not me. But I am the one who’s mouth must open to give it a voice.
There is a window- a doorway- who is open. This open frame, through it comes a season, all of the seasons. Through it comes a memory in roulette, a memory in vignettes. Presses it’s best foot forward and doorward it enters into this place we share without an effort or a care and we are one at once and then also none.
There is a silk and patient breeze who makes love to me, off in a fantasy between my tongue and teeth. I remember the wetness but not the touches of your embrace. I miss you still, even though you’ve left nothing more than the wake. All of these shades of blurred makeup sits sweet in my waiting but the breath draws like a bow across some old string. The universe jumps into sing, and I bleed grief. The universe jumps into blue and I can’t do a damn thing to stop the thief, yet I weave a new thinking on the hinge, and I’m forgotten by the blustering pummel, the sensing of what has been into a pastiche of being, a pastel of teeth digging in on my blooming dream.
Intersecting with reality. The tragedies don’t grow close here, they just grow here. Year in and year out, a decanter sings a whistling tune and I’m back in June with the sound of concrete against me. I can feel the pulse pull me, I grit my teeth and they draw me like a blade across some long lost masquerade. My characters and myself, we find our way our of the blister and linger in the morning light. At the edge of evening. At the dawn of reflection. In the moon of Regrets.
I can’t revoke my silence then, and my remorse now has drug me into the villages who birthed these ideas.
I think about my name, and I wonder who is saying it. There’s an uncertainty, waiting for the opening.
There is a wind who blows through me. It tells the truth.
Michaud Savage 