Toes of Time

If one were to wipe me from your memory,
you would still be you,
and I would still be me
walking the same paths,
crossing the same crossroads,
eyes on the sun,
hearts aflutter,
searching for a glimpse:
one for the brown hand,
and one for the white,
one for the long days,
and one for the night.

I wish I could close the world,
draw each corner of it unto me
like a blanket,
like falling asleep at the center of petals
and let the silence mould me
into something beautiful,
something lost,
something forgotten,
so that when I am found
in the middle of nowhere,
a child
unable to understand
the depths of the finger he holds to walk
I am appreciated,
welcomed home,
and not left
like a wrapper
on the road.

I feel the feathers in my bones,
and eddies in my soul,
as my mind flows
passing through life,
through gentle retributions,
via murmured aspirations
like wave after wave,
conquering and crashing,
a second of victory,
only to dissolve,
and dance on the auburn sand
between time’s pink toes,
walking on eternity’s shore,
barefoot.

I miss the time
when my shadow was small.