that night felt like a memory. 

one locked in the deepest corners of a mind

left to years of dust and deep-seated heartache.

 

it was a ripple, sent to announce some

mysterious splendor to the inhabitants of one

glass-coated pond. Narcissus has been disrupted;

 

his unwavering gaze overthrown. beyond this mirror

lay the last moments of a night overgrown. I lean closer.

a small glint teases my eyes: my hand follows.

 

so small, so gentle, so very slim the odds seem.

of catching light, memory incarnate. the taste of 

something just beyond the surface

 

forever close enough to see, but forever out of reach:

the whispers of an old friend, or the patter of

plum juice as it drips from a royal chin and

 

sugar

coated

finger

tips.

 

a nightsky painted red

(or perhaps lost in vain attempts of remembrance)

so gently pulses within my veins.

 

and so the ripple begins to fade, gently drawing water

to lap on the wistful shore. if only another tempered

grace would fall, reminding me to 

 

break my gaze.

 

until then I watch the glimmer playing below the sky -

no, its aquatic sister - and let the wind weave

cautious notes of eternity amongst the stars.