treatswords

Indigo Summer.

Warm nights clouded in a rich haze.

Not quite purple, not quite blue.

Embers in the grass, my feet too.

Lying below the night sky, spread above me like a picnic blanket.

I exhale and watch the stream of smoke leaving my mouth, a purple cloud.

The weed hits and I absorb the sky like lungs taking in air.

We’re both spongey tissue and the sky is filling me with black.

The starts twinkle, reminding me of lost diamonds.

Maybe they are wandering souls, tiny markers in the sky.

An arm raised, hand waving, familiar eyes.

But I can’t quite make out who it is from down here.

I roll over onto my stomach, feeling the grass on my face.

I wonder if there is grass up there too.

I picture it long and overgrown.

A thick jungle with a watering hole somewhere in the center.

“If you just look inside, you can see your reflection. The only place a ghost can see themselves up here.”

A man made of palm leaves tells me.

I peer in and there I am amongst the ripples.

Deep creases on my face.

A pale raisin.

Weary eyes.

I take another hit and consider that there may be nothing for souls up there.

No collection pool for us to wait in.

The idea sends panic through me.

I imagine myself no longer existing.

All the lights turned off.

I close my eyes, picturing that it might resemble something close to this.

Darkness.

Stillness.

An entire life ended, memories we’ve collected buried with us, six inches deep.

What if there were memory hunters?

Splitting our heads like a coconut, pulling through the purple meat to recover hidden memories.

Two fingers to them like a pulse.

“Ah, here it is.” They moan, absorbing our delicate pasts, addicted to the thrill of watching a life play before them like a dream.

I picture someone playing mine, thumb to my forehead, eyes closed.

Long blonde hair.

Dad’s center island.

Mom’s white T-shirt, pressed against my chest, thunderstorms.

A wet nose, furry paws, apricot fur.

A brown man’s heart beating on me softly, his eyes fluttering shut.

They would surely steal my reel, pocketing it to replay on the couch, feet up, cup of tea in hand.

“Wait, wait, this is the best part!” They’d say as the scene changes.

But isn’t it all the best part?

My feet on the grass.

The moon like a hook waiting to catch me on it.

I lick my finger and put the joint out.

Leaving purple footprints in the grass.