Misty Memory


I met him last night in a room shuttered and silent, painted with gray and gone wan. He was middle-aged handsome, his chin dappled with careless hair. Around his mouth were creases when he smiled that showed he had known joy in life. His eyes a mystery, my memory failing–or maybe I sunk into them drawn by their depth.

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We talked and laughed. And I had some project to perform–a photograph etching this moment in time, this man. But rather I revealed parts of myself, both physical and others, sinking within, to parts I had not gone in a long time.

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Somehow it seemed right with him, this man, in this deep and precious place. I let go for a moment, tasting again that feeling and wondering at it.

Then, he left for the night and the shadowed light returned. I arose from my bed recalling the visit as his misty memory disappeared.

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