Wandering

Disordered Thoughts

I don’t remember, it may have been idling somewhere before yesterday or somewhere above my thoughts — between that empty space where God wanders and the wish I chase away with the adamant shake of the head — that he’d get lost.

I don’t remember, although you had hoped I would — remember in that fashion that would absolve you from your faults, the way old memories soften the vertical lines of past sins into the curving milestones of maturity.

I don’t remember, perhaps because it benefits you or me, or neither, not to remember, although if you remember yet question me, you’ve drawn a waterline between the truth and hearsay.

I don’t remember, but if you wish, I can create you a memory, one you can interpret — read from tea-leaves that stain the the palm you crossed with the betraying sterling of your diastrophic fear.

If you insist, now I remember — - it was Sunday, that Sunday you darkened my doorstep — between the hour or half past the notion when Sunday was anointed into the hierarchy of holiness and the moment it impulsively dawned amongst dreadful hindsight of the tatters of a Monday morning.

It was that Sunday when Sunday annulled it’s sanctity, or perhaps Monday, I don’t remember, desist!

It was Sunday — when god was wandering and you prayed he’d not be found — he wandered into the resurrection of Monday, where you hide amongst us, in pure sight.

I am not keeper of the memories you deny within the boundaries of idle chatter and oxidized hope chests,

when you remember where god wandered, I’ll remind you of what you wished that I’d forget.

It was Sunday — that wandered backwards into Saturday, before Sunday was anointed and Monday was immersed in the tepid baptismal font of selective memory.

Do you remember? Perhaps it best that you forget what I remember.

God is wandering in the ruins of your head, but he made a rest-stop in mine,

Desist!, God’s memory is forgiving, and mine has not yet been blessed with the holy water’s of denial,

It was Sunday, somewhere between the notion of your arrogance and the space above my thoughts, where God wanders, lost yet found,

to be precise it was a white midnight, when you slithered within the crawlspace — as glaucus as an impromptu Monday.

Ahhhh, I see that you remember, you were at the right place at the wrong time and there you were enlightened, atoned for by which memories you choose to not engage God with — along the way — you should have remembered — that Sunday’s never immortal, fleeting, always wander away.

Copyright ©. R Tsambounieri Talarantas. Jan 9, 2020. All Rights Reserved.