The Problem of Remaining

\textbf{\large{I}}t’s a proper occasion for incredulity. To consider the big sky, the sharp wind on a bare face; to be aware of watering eyes in cold, evening lights that bend and smear as through broken lenses.

\textbf{\large{T}}he rain passed and the air is dry.

\textbf{\large{T}}he sun is here and gone, on cue or by surprise.

\textbf{\large{N}}ow the smell of raw earth and pavement and flowering plants; now the sounds of the city and of my empty stomach and of my heavy shoes on dry cement; and the sight of only everything: All that I can touch and see and smell. How can any of this still be real?

\textbf{\large{Y}}ou are there in those notes and dappled fading times. You are there. You are there. We had a laugh and talked of plans and nothing in particular. I considered your opinion just now as I walk alone and answered you out loud, nodding. Just a moment ago I’m sure I saw your face over there in a shop window then up in the leaves of a tree.

\textbf{\large{M}}y senses stubbornly persist and chafe and demand. Like the cold wind. Like the hot sun. Like the roar of the city and everything else that would also seem real and tangible. Like the sound of our last conversation echoing just now, enquiring about what remains real, there to that other face in the mirror.



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