Of Knowledge or Perception

I've been sitting on your bench again. The year is 2011 and the season is silver and the characters are the same and I'm watching peter pans pout as I challenge their mortality.

There's a ticking of Hungarian triplets stage right. A man stands poised before a glow of blue and red, shielding his eyes from sorrow as he prays in melody. I hold my breath, surrounded by mink and Chanel, wondering if opulence is humbled by the sound of memory.

And then the applause ends and the tears are dried and the hall is emptied and history repeats itself in Brooklyn while the papers look away.

I've been sitting on your bench again. The snow rises to just above my ankles. The season is St. Petersburg and my mother is 12, running with ice skates swinging off her shoulder to the stand on the corner with the steaming hot bread.

I think I'm falling for someone. It's a terrifying sort of calm.

I've been sitting on your bench again, tasting the remnants of your poetry. I've been waiting for the snow peaks to transform into the outlines of your frosted hair. There is so much I want to tell you.

I've been revisiting belief.