The time will come
when you find yourself in a place more misty
than before, more precipitous,
and stumble like a drunk
who once knew the map by heart.

you'll remember the warm smell
of tobacco on a rough shirt
or maybe eyes glittering blue
or red dirt sifting through your fingers.

you'll feel around blindly
for those days with hot sun on your back
when you collected silkworms on fat green leaves

or maybe:
granadilla seeds leaking down your cheeks
onto red polished floors reflecting green light
entering through floor length windows
or perhaps they're doors.

maybe you'll feel the outline of
bumpy dirt roads leading
to a pastel pink house, fading
the tall trees around it becoming blurry
at their highest branches

you'll try to shake loose the feeling
of flying through the air
of falling into large hands
and of steering a giant head
by tugging tufts of thick black hair

you'll try to hold them all
in cupped hands,
breathe them and smell them,
and pretend that there's more, than a
chill on your fingers