i want to tell you the stories of memories. old men drinking whiskey in rooms drowsy with cigar smoke, speaking of time. daughters turned women. wives masquerading goddesses and shadows. the humility of old age. cars. impotence. teeth.
and single memories. perfect days. preserved as single roses on silent mountain tops, immune to snowstorms and time.
in the beginning there was me and you.
in the end, there was you and me.
what remains a question of in-between.
in your dreams, we are watching the moon.
in my dreams, you are watching me, too.