with something about the smell of lilacs. in bloom. whatever other time would there be. the noxious perfume. the unmistakable way the sun stabs at the back of my eyes. everything is so obvious. purposeful. the way the world turns. the ocean, rocks. waves and heartbeats and birdswings. oh. i always forget what i am saying. just about here
the dogs bark or a car alarm howls down the street. just enough of a clip. a tug. and it's all gone.
you know that moment. when you think you've got another sip of tea. or coffee. that last sip. just waiting on you. until you're ready. because you haven't had enough. and you're so sure that it's there, that you don't even look. raise the cool ceramic edge to the edge of your flushed flesh. that stupid lip. and when your head goes back. gravity sticks. and you realize. there's nothing left. not the fucking edge or the lip's press or the weight on the tongue of flavor and memory. and time.
then the cat jumps at the window. from the outside. looking in. his stupid face. cute and horrible. and home. he'll never come in if you stop to open the door. and the dogs lick balls and toes and their expensive micro-sued beds.
and then, all i can think about is how stupid it would be to say lilacs in bloom. who cares? what else would they be, if not that. those ugly things that lilac bushes turn into for most months of the year when they are without. like the rest of us. skeletal wind breaks for out-buildings. memories of some other time.
