something else

I guess I had to jump right into it. Starting without knowing

is hard enough. Like blindfolded, like cliff-side.

Like loose rocks.

All I remember about you now are those ten-foot velvet curtains and no sunlight.

I guess I also remember sleep like a mask, like chloroform.

I couldn’t pull it off.

And the grit in the carpet, the occasional sharp sting.

Rusty bottoms of things and sharp points.

What I don’t remember is the agony of the sun at last when I left

(blindfold, cliffside).

Now I want to know what you forget. Coming to and unable to find my way back.

My mother would say

you are something else.

You are more than anyone else I’ve known.