It doesn’t come.
Its buried, gone. I search, I strain, I long for sweet recall, but it rarely comes. The words breeze by, softly scented like summer, fleeting and forgettable. The only thing that lingers is the sweet memory, blurry and fragile, halted in the heat. It stays for far too long, becoming a stinking sweat, sticky and repulsive, drowning any desire to pursue more. It festers, useless, until it must be banished, off into the rotten heap of things we want to forget.
Its useless really, chasing a train of thought. There’s no hope in catching it. The moment’s too fleeting. If you’re lucky, the stars align and you can throw the letters down, charged like lightning, striking with force. If you’re lucky.
I try not worry too much, about those words long gone, careening away to another world where I can’t catch them. They’ll be okay. They’ll find a stop, and I might catch up again. But if I don’t that’s okay too.
It’s just so hard not to try, when the summer’s waning, fall barreling down upon you with relentless speed, and you want something to hold on to. Or maybe it’s what I’m trying to avoid. After all the warm sun of summer, I dread the stark dry days ahead, when leaves fall with reckless abandon and the sky turns grey with indifference.
Really it’s the fear of what I’ll remember as the September haze wafts in, carrying all the things long ago cast aside. That train has memories quite sharp, that easily sting, anew and fresh, as if they’d never left me.
All the nightmares and the stars, the demons deep within, slither silken and sly among the lost dreams, the desiccated fountains of ideas still yet to bloom, tortured from wanting to know the unknowable.
Interminable, the impatience of waiting for lightning to strike.
It doesn’t come.
But the thunder, it rolls.