Sometimes I look back at things that are mine and cannot understand them.
This morning I flipped through an old notebook, trying to determine whether it had secrets worth keeping, when I found this written at the top of a page:
"It is time to part, before murder is done."
And below that:
"So let us part like ghosts
And promise not to haunt each other—"
I do not know if these lines are from the same place as the first, though it seems possible, even probable.
But why? Why did I write them, wish to remember them? Though I must admit, they are lovely lines and I am sorry I ever forgot them.
In another old notebook (and this one has a date on the page of 11–15–96), more lines, this time of my own:
Fall into the Final Night,
Like ships that sail toward siren song;
When stardust shatters into light,
Will your heart break to find me gone?
When dreams are all that's left of me,
I'll gather all the stars above
And sprinkle them into the sea
To remind you that I'm still in love.
Which is funny since I can't recall having been in love at the time. In fact, these words are entered into my rocket science notebook, lodged somewhere after Bracewell Probes and the Hart Hypothesis.
Sometimes, I wonder.