We were alive, once. Now
existing as a frayed concoction
of strings, each a connection
to the bodies close
and smiling, laughs falling
like bread crumbs,
a trail blown up by the wind.
I search for the remnants
of your voice, buried somewhere
within a static murmur,
feeling the dread of darkness dragging
itself over me, crawling underneath
my blanket, a reminder
that this was all preventable.
My memories of you, too often
out of order, exist as shards
too jagged to connect, sharp enough
to keep my consciousness bleeding, each
driving down the darkness
of Cajalco at night, the eternal road
back to that moment in time.
I kicked the top
of a sand dune, and what
seemingly took eternities to be established
crashed, the granules
of time and our histories
chasing each other
towards an endless bottom.
I dig through our ashes hoping
that something is still burning, and as
this whiskey warms my stomach, I wonder
if we could’ve gotten drunk together, and
laughed some more, and
smiled some more, and
built some more.
Lucas Bailor is an emerging writer from Moreno Valley, CA. He is currently working towards his MA in English.