Do I remember you?
And you... being my perception of a past me...

A ghost of me.

Past actions cannot be real, except for the impact they've had on the now...

The people of the past are all dead...

Organic, changed, chained to the decay of cells,
Ghosts of the bodies which walk the path laid out by the poltergeists...

... of yesterday,

We walk through ghosts... on our way to now.

Are we echoes? We are echoes... We must be. Echoes made of matter, of dust and dirt and blood. But do I remember you?

You the lover, the son and brother, daughter of the friend, the father... the Everyone, and everything... The ghost that grips my mind. We walk through ghosts, Though... “We” is an inconsistency.

When I pushed deep into you, I was home. Inside my family... My womb of weeping thoughts and dying dreams... and nightmare things...

I walked through ghosts... I walked alone... I dreamed a dream of Shining things, that spoke and touched and created seas... seas of me.

Do I remember you? I remember me, when I touched you...

I remember the soft satin of smooth sweat across your chest. The way the sun drenched, decayed on your delicate divide. I remember the Desperation in the dark, the dim lit dampening of eyes as we drowned in the dusk of the doorway's cracking shimmer stitch...

Do I remember you? I remember me...

I remember the realest parts of you, and what they made as marks on me.

The crushing touch of dull thrust after thrust of pull and touch....

consciousness, fading, from the torn tarnish and slipping, like dreams from dander,

And I made love alone...