River
Tell me what you used to do,
far from the river,
deep in the woods
while we talked,
sitting on a rotting log,
near the river we first met,
in the snowstorm of the past,
now settled, melting,
as if the future brings with it,
a spring of unknown origin,
when I used to tell you my stories,
you told me of,
my mistakes,
and re-wrote my life,
to fit the tale you wanted to tell,
but I felt the moon encroaching,
on our spot,
by the river,
and moved a cloud to hide us,
our words slipping out from the corners,
of our mouths,
and slithering,
like lampreys,
into the river beneath us,
moving like a sea encapsulated,
by the stringent land,
waiting for its time,
seeping through the rocks,
for millenia,
and as we sit,
even now,
in the river,
the river of my mind,
I ask you questions,
you refuse to answer,
as the river rushes over and through,
my eyes,
and,
yours.