Photograph by Ludovic FLORENT. See more here.
One day, babe, one day (we)’ll be old. Sitting next to (you: objective you; one; anyone; people in general) the porch and laughing toothless thinking of all the inside jokes (you) have collected and all the people (you)’ve lost and disconnected. The love (you)’ve spent and what (you) spent it on and what that gave (you) shivers and what (you) stood for why (you) were standing and (you) are why are (you) still standing.
One day (your: the possessive case of you; indicates belonging, to oneself or any person) skin loose and colored with age. (Your) hair white halo like (you) know where (your) head is. (You) won’t cry anymore because sadness is just a state of mind and (you)’ve collected enough tears to soup for all the grandchildren (you) never had are not having.
And to understand is to think through is to connect memory to experiential input by electric fingertip connection to empath(ize/y) is a responsibility. And (you)’ll have realized long ago that life is masochism and god is sadist if (s)he’s up there at all and you lov(ed/e) it to survive but (you)’re tired – with full force consonants, T and D – and (your) head is lolling with dormant mortality. (Your) eyes will have grown stale, a jaundice at the corners that reminds the mirror that (you) used to be a different person (you) used to be so many different people (you) used to be a construction of so many different people and (you) will look in the mirror and wonder why any of them mattered and what happened to their voices and when (you) began to dread (your) birthday more than irrelevant anniversaries.
Because (you)’ve forgotten that there’s an (I) there somewhere in. (I: nominative I; denoting the narrator of a literary or oratory work in the first person; metaphysics, the ego) and responsibility is something (you) take up too late and lose soon after – life as a matter of a series of moments that a brain recollects as a divided and scattered narrative of happenings and images and smell as the greatest conductor of recollection. Stronger by experiential extremity, narrowed into over simplified lists of “the very best” and “the very worst”.
(You) smell(/ed) like cinnamon and (you) gave (my: the possessive case of I; attributive to the narrator of a work of literature or oration) throat the same feeling. Listed under “the very best” as a pupil (you) (were/are?) expansive – (I ) don’t know anymore and what (I) knew when (was/is) exactly what it felt like to slip a cigarette in (my) mouth after lips linger leaving and (I) think (I) said goodbye, but (I)’m not sure. (I) remember thinking “don’t go”, but for the denotative (I) am at loss.
In now (I) suppose (we: objective us; used to denote oneself and another or others) can revert to present, in terms of what (we) consider now, separate and concrete, with nothing but a vague idea of a smell that has long since aired out; stale tobacco erasing bits of faces and eye colors and specific touches and the way a hair falls out of place. And perhaps (we)’re a memory that will wash its way back around again. Until then (I) ponder pronounic significance and try to recapture ghost touches by way of this is what a dream feels like. Longing for something (you) and (I) don’t already know.
– Jaime Dyna La Mondain