surreal literature

I would get so close
I could almost reach out and examine my feelings.
But the ‘almost’
felt like unbreathable glass.

What started as a ripple became a wave,
then a thunderous tsunami.
The water was just the sound of a promise
learning to forget itself.

“…a different time and place,”
I would tell myself.
But time was like a folded map,
missing the ink for the mountains I needed.

I take pride in my memory,
but I can’t recall this minor detail.
It was like a breath
that my mind’s library refused to record.

I could.
However, the key to the lock was a language that is no longer spoken.

My thoughts were confused.
They just needed to focus
on the sound of a name.

In hindsight,
it no longer matters.
The feeling was measured in miles of static electricity.