Perhaps I’m getting younger.

I can’t help but notice that at a time when it seems many of my friends are complaining about a loss of memories, I’m finding them.

Last week, I awoke and lay in bed remembering other dreams the same as they would have been years ago, before the heat of day wore them down. Only now, I’m remembering details not as dreams, but as memories. The dreams have become rooted in other dreams, and in pieces of reality – even reality that might have seemed unimportant or transparent before.

I’m not sure of the reasons. Could be a bad bowl of banana pudding or some exceptionally strong nail polish (beauty’s best). I’m perplexed, and intrigued. I only know it is happening, and I’m aware and unafraid of knowing (or not).

Threads once thought to have no meaning are weaved into others, the truth becoming more than one shade of scarlet.

carry me
the only way
on roads you keep
so well
let me sleep
til morning
shakes your faith
in the story
I been telling
of where the sun awaits
and where the trees are bent
beneath the night
my fate
is all but written
by the movement
of your hands
a chapter more (or less)
is free enough
city lights
are faded
tho wing’ed lanterns rise
out beyond the reach
of will and luck
beyond the plans
of where we’d be –
it hardly matters now
just let me wake
remembering
your touch

. . .