They say high altitudes age you. It leaves your skin older. Time passes like a little bitch that slaps you a high five, punches you in the gut, then run away. Velocity. But then again, a weird phenomenon. The moments that suspend, haunt. the weeks pass in shades infared. It might have been a year since June. I don’t know if I really know. Besides, nothing surprises me anymore.
It seems a time of magic. An ironic dichotomy in a time when everything likewise seems to be turning to shit. But the outside world leaves in the morning when the air is crisp. Talks of war and disease click like a metronome but our melody exists outside of it’s relentless rhythms. Here it is quiet. Nothing much ever happens. Yet each night things change, rapidly. It is possible to exist in duality. Days that pass like seconds, yet sentences and conversations that wax and wane with the worlds they bring and their meaning.
Do I wonder if you’ll ever read this? Sure. I think of you often. Lines of face, experiments in stature and shadows. But I don’t let the details of the features of your being get to me much. The cold is good for forgetting, I am learning with each layer I can warm again. I don’t lust for summer skin.
Foliage has this effect. A keen awareness of mortality. The exile of rain comes and street corner bleed and cars pass. Coffee, cigarettes shared, blankets wrestled, bodies finding home, or finding themselves alone.