It was an August afternoon
when I heard the tip-toe sound
of something trying to end.

Our memories,
long placed on pause,
had decided to stretch
and grasp
for the remote control
that lie breathing slow
under my couch cushion.

That powerful remote
your presence in my life.

At my touch
the tape went fuzzy.
Black & white
bobbed under strobe lights.

I heard the splash and buzz
of a thousand interrupted scenes,
feet next to each other on the coffee table,
blown kisses,
movie kisses,
hello-again kisses,
kisses that lacked zing,
kisses that meant everything;

late night moods that revealed our inner insanity
and connection,
and our most embarrassing laugh.

I wanted to dive for those memories
collecting around my ankles like pools of water.
I wanted to chase the liquid of them
with a force
that would cause evaporation
to surrender.

But I couldn’t.

For a moment
I saw everything clearly.

And the next moment
made it all disappear.