If the wet air remembered something, the dry lost it. I felt it the first time around. It made me feel I would never see you again, but you when your voice appeared I cringed. Was that the feeling? I couldn’t remember you when I was with you, but when you left, your memory never left me. The shadow followed me on early mornings when I woke up and it overflowed me until the afternoon when I was ready for dusk to tuck me into night. Goodnight.
Her scarf lay along the desk which contained three books and held a large, oval mirror. The days passed and various things would place themselves in front of her mirror: a vase of flowers, her day’s left-over work, a laptop, an occasional sweater, and now and then, on mornings when she could afford the minutes, she’d sit in front of her mirror and check the reflection that stared back at her. Sometimes the reflection blinked, sometimes it smiled, sometimes it frowned, but most the time, it looked back at her with a stern resignation of indifference.
Lux, a light without shadow, without the shaping of something, Light, creeping into this window and along the drapes shapes, draping, lighting the edges, soft leicht, fluttering so much those edges begin to lift themselves.