48 days ago, I don’t even know your face.
I’ve known you for a hundred and eleven years.
Remember the adventure we went on, the one where
you tongued ancient runes on my throat? No. Of course
not. But the lions have happened. The cathedral where
you said you did. The moment when I went into that story
and got tangled eternal in the plot. Pulling the threads apart is
like unwinding limbs. Your shoulder fits my desire perfectly.
There is a place where rivered songs lament the loss of forgetting.
We’ve been there. We will go there. We are there one minute ago forever.
Let me stop talking, let me lead you to the nows
that ache, folded in on themselves like warm sheets.
If you hold my face between the curve of your fingers, you will
not remember it. I still smell the ink on your mouth.
Warning: there are spoilers in this poem.
I’ve been the future. I’ve written it between these lines.
When you are six hundred and I am dead, I have been waiting
with these bound words
to meet you again
for the first time.
This postcard arrived from MRK in Portland, Oregon on February 1st. “In the matter of time travel,” is one of the lines from the note on the back. I was thinking about ancient gods, River Song’s journal and love notes.
Yesterday, I sent a card to my grandparents in upstate NY. I haven’t written my letter for today yet.