Lost in the Finding; or, Memories like Late Autumn Frost

Memories linger like the reluctant frost of an early morning in late autumn. The crystalline tinge of leftover moonlight and star-shine sleeps soundly against the slow pull of the rising sun, dreams reluctantly slipping in thin misty tendrils toward a brightening blue sky. That's when I feel her most. When I feel the most alone. The warmth of this or that morning's coffee slowly kindling fires within the chilled ache of my body, pipe-smoke peeling away the dreary fog of a daunting and sleepless night.

"Did you put out the stars with Hikeshibaba (火消婆) last night?" you would say with butterfly whispers and a kiss like the wind. Your skin the warmth within the morning that wills the world to life. Your hair loose within the apartment's stillness, the slowly swinging conductor's baton bringing the symphony of morning birds to tune. I would feel arms fold and pull, skin pebble then smooth. I would close my eyes and breathe in the world that would only spark to life with a technicolored brilliance at your rising.

"Good morning, my Amaterasu (アマテラス)." That's all I could ever say. In those mornings, you were the birth and death of every breath. You were the sunrise that woke the world.

I look out this morning beyond the dampening banisters from a cold front porch and close my eyes against the slow rise of the sun, the slow reluctance of the early morning frost coating the ground like a thousand specks of shattered sea glass. And I feel you again.

Good morning, my Amaterasu.

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Lost in the Finding

By: Jonathan Garren

I am desperate for fingers raising skin,

For your long hair tangled in the wind.

And I am built to embrace my sins,

But I know they were hard for you to defend.

I miss the taste of your lips and the slow rise of your smile,

Your scent like winter woodsmoke and summer rain.

I miss the bend of your knees in sensual denial,

Your fever, your cries, your joy, and your pain.

I’m trying to find the weakness that pushed you away,

Suffocate the flames that tore our story from the binding.

I’m still trying to find the lies to make you stay,

I keep trying to find why I’m lost in the finding.

Does that mean we were broken by desire,

Or did we bleed together through the lust?

Does that mean we became liars,

Or were we simply betrayed by trust?

Did we gradually descend into colder water,

Frozen in memories beneath time and dust?

Or were we meant for different lovers,

Different bodies to blend and adjust?