Sometimes we can’t explain why a memory is made,
it’s strange,
we have no say on our remembrance.
That hurts,
like knives,
like shadows,
like pits of darkness where you go to come back later.
There’s nothing in this world for me to achieve,
that’s how it works,
that’s how you comprehend each small senses in writing…
With time, faces become hazy, eyes become distorted,
the drunk vision of a lonely wood comes into mind.
And I feel like going there and touching that moment again,
constructing that face again…
the moles, the waves on hairs, the tremble of lips, the wondering of blues…
There’s layers of times inside,
the rides, new places, those words after drinking from the cold evenings…
they are each layers, each defeat of my constantly rejecting mind.
This night of one country song brings so many reasons to suffocate a little more,
to howl a little more,
to scratch a little more,
and to smile a little more on the face of the clouds and for the smell of the mountains.

…………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Cat Cliffe.