This is a story, where no one can tell you their memories are pure.
A tale without limbs. A tale of words that are missing.
Where voices were once heard.
Someone said beasts roamed the land without anger.
And trees grew without being cut down, without growth being owned.
Their fruit brought forgetfulness; their fruit brought no pangs.
And wind. I recall wind at its gentlest. Always a breeze.
Bird calls at sunrise. Birds with colorful feathers.
The colors were different.
Black was absent; had been banished from our presence.
Blue, green, yellow, red? Scattered patterns return to mind.
And water filled every vista: rain, snow, ocean, river.
We drank from fingers held over our mouths.
Leaping, arms across bodies racing, screaming to the world.
In pursuit of each other, we fought for each summit.
Your hills went unnoticed; my hills were mysterious.
The hills that we traced were like carpets, and smooth.
When we found them, we left all caves unexplored.
We left them without wanting their pearls.
I can't recall sunsets. Only a brilliance that dimmed.
At the close of each day we washed ourselves, dried ourselves.
Your hands were my hands, your feet were my feet.
Touch was convergence. Touch was ecstatic.
My tongue swept your hair back; your tongue wiped my lips apart.
Smiles? Were there smiles?
And darkness was velvet, purple, stained with the stars.
There was awe (now I'm sure of it).
On the morning I left it, I left you with my scar.
You may still be there, asleep to its charms.
But the names that we gave there have eroded to dirt.
They've disappeared as I've aged.
But long ago someone said a child was foretold.
And all I remember is that she's here now.
All I remember: my child; maybe yours.
Long ago . . . is she yours?