Fragments

There are pieces of me scattered through history. A part of me is still gasping for air, soaked in sweat, drowning in your last words on a blood stained carpet. There’s a piece of me still locked in your green eyes watching the wind caress the scarlet curls from your shoulders. A piece is sitting in a hammock with a cloud of smoke rolling up through the Georgia rain with my best friend. There’s a hurt piece of me trying to come up with an answer that would satisfy a four year old girl’s question of, ‘Why are you crying?’ A happy piece of me is still watching art save the same girl from a haunted past. A piece of me is still standing on the side freeway with a thumb out. There’s a happy piece of me sleeping on a concrete floor with my dog with nothing and wondering how it disappeared so fast into a pile of meaningless possessions. There’s another piece sitting around a fire with strangers in Ramadan, staring at the desert night sky, smoking hookah, and listening to stories. Every fading memory takes with it a piece of its contributing soul’s. The price of exchange in life and experience. How much life must be attained before I am satisfied? I crave so much, and it’s never enough—but I have grown so tired and the weight of Heaven and Hell sits heavy in my mind. I spend so much time scaling crumbling sand dunes trying reclaim pieces of myself, that I might leap frog through time, forever falling short, dying of thirst in a desert.