Ginger

ELISHA OSORIO ______________________________

Ginger

the moths flock in array upon time immemorial, untouched. like the love we were promised, spectres of kisses descend upon tabletops and bookmarks; they rest and they decay, hand in burnt-hand. do you remember where we first met, the person i was, the person i thought you were sometimes i cannot think and this juts out and congeals–to its source, its fossil. and there is not enough time in this plane of memory to realize i cannot think like i cannot bleed i have no desire to ask myself what this means, i am meddling in a pool of confusion, a pool i have always known but i am a child still caught up in the breeze of wonder spiraling like the ginger in my mother’s tea where did it all go wrong? and i ask this, again and again