Mortal – stretcher at the ready. I will carry you across the oceans, sit with you. The cap of my toe peeking out from underneath the sand. I love you sweet uman. The grains I fold too , fold them into the depths of my heart. Little globes, worlds in their own right. You – other – niched in a sweet spot , I am your back, spine and muscle. Ambition hails my hushed attempt at kissing away your scarlet blush. I dissolve , then bow, then bow, and dissolve, with me the morsels of earth , fragments of uman, dazzle, dazzle a pink, lush tone on your placid skin, echoing life, thundering through me, occupying me. I want nothing more than to be free.

I am madly in love with the cherry tree. The last leaf on the stalk, the pit in the sink, underneath its flesh, unwrapped and exposed. I am madly in love with the cherry tree. And I sing of the petals like a peddler strutting through the village gates, of one up high on a lonesome hill, standing in the midday sun. The crown a shrivel and a scribble on a sketch book left behind, out of pages old stories in rhythmic verse retold:

Ol‘ cherry tree, born and raised of long
A somber tale your bless’ed child
Say wind and storm, and sun and rain
My heart, your steady thump, go on

Fresh now the seasons strive
Pungent air of dauntless growth
Cross branches soon in outward reach
Buds and blossoms eager thrive

Awe for freedom, ease and pain,
Out by stigma, style and stem,
There a flower, notch and pen
Draw and capture

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, wondrous lust
Dipped in ink and sealed complete
In loves fit wool and mane.

My inner may well resemble a sinkhole. A cavern of dust, putrid soil, how can something grow in this emptiness? The book remains. On my lap, J.D. Salinger’s „The Catcher in the Rye“. My little title of freedom when there is nothing but rain covering my plot. New York, I yearn to be swallowed by your streets. So far, the big apple, I can tell you that. But I would rather sing of these very pages, mechanically stuck between two covers, title and all, print and story. Phonies.

I was referring to the song of a specific fragrance held in these pages as I inhale deeply a formula of time. Reading with my eyes closed turning into a habit for my nostrils. Oh , what wealth in this heated humdrum. The nectar honey is; worn wood dipped into the golden mass by a goddess, resting her head upon her hand, entangled in vines, lapping at her existence. Then set out to dry in the warming rays of the sun , twisting themselves into the fibrous tissue in dire need to unfold the deep , comforting brush of texture I call home.

All of me sinks, absorbs, melts, yes, melts and dissolves. I want to say fades, fades into an untold fairy tale of pages and their lasting fragrance, where really, I discover now, the action is not mine. The inaction essentially unlocks the magic. I am the vessel, on the receiving end of bliss. I will say this: eternity hides in the crease of two pages. Just close your eyes and breath.

…and it reminds me of something long past. Still

, it provides a sort of shelter, a cocoon, in which I taste the lingering ember of affection and attachment. Someone. So foreign now – the word, not the feeling. Really, it isn’t my hat I’m wearing.

I am dressed in memories, seeping into my heart, letting it swell, ambushing me as I consider. Conceiving a thought, I refuse this birth. The true jubilation is closer to the heart than the mind. I have wrestled with reason too much

, too long, to no avail. The crown of my head serves well to shoulder this hat, that will suffice. A beret.

A scent woven into its fabric; I recognize immediately. One encounter, brief beyond time, has me standing on a bench, overlooking the village roofs. Chimney tops and the passing smoke, faint in its rising, swept away by wind. No, this scent does not dwindle into the night. It is you I bear in the depths of my heart.

So I breath. And I want to say I smile. My parted lips are a release, soon chimney too, a nimble liberation as no part of me needs act

, just a vehicle for breath, soft and free. There now, cocoon and scent, my universe in a waltz through time, no hands whizzing round minute and hour. All I am, is wearing a hat – your hat – and I like it.