The Colour of Memory
The giggles began at the end of the first bottle of red. The muse was hovering over your right shoulder smiling at me for the moment a little later when my pen would strike the paper and attempted magic recreation would slap down words.
You were telling me a story that made you look foolish and you turned red again,
matching the wine, matching the colour of memory which is blood red for a set of reasons, some of them ferocious, some of them courageous, some of them still stuck in the blender, beaten into the froth we ran from on the beach in North Carolina, the sun just about down, you remember the time I mean.
Without personal standards, the tennis net of life never gets cranked up. No matter how well you hit the ball your game is all fake and lies.
You ruled that all zippers must be made of metal. All ties must be silk. only German autos are really cars.
I remember how you warned me about your mother. Still we visited to make sure that her new TV you had ordered for her had arrived to keep her shredded nerves in the general vicinity of her body. No sign of the bottle, just the tea cup, never told me if it was vodka or what exactly. Mrs. Devil and her details.
Red wine has drained out of my corner of the universe. Coffee slides down. Sleep stops by some nights. Reasons keep coming to mind I keep slapping them down like slow houseflies at the end of October.
My new hobby killing geriatric houseflies while reading every line Shakespeare wrote. Turning off the television and the computer. Such a shame one cannot turn off memory.