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Fake Biography

The details were lost, so I’ll fill them in as best as I can.  No record was left, nowhere to begin, so I’ll start from scratch:

When you were young, you still felt old — old enough to run to where you are now, somewhere in gold, hidden by the sun. 

Confidentially whisper to me these things:

When did it first make you cry to wake up alone in the covers after a dream you’d designed to feel the love of a former lover?

And,

What was the first thought you had when you felt that the earth was shaking under your feet, in the sand, to break your toes and the waves your making?

You struggled to breathe and tore at your throat to open up the skin; you sang through that hole one bloody note that I recorded.  And this is your fake biography, tearing at the seams.  I wrote it all down from memory, in my sleep, starting from the day we met:

Just as the Spring showed it’s hand, your sudden heart was bruised and burning,

And Summer did sing just as planned.  The golden rays were slowly turning.

But Autumn broke in and stole your breeze to weave your hair into a birds nest

So winter could grin with glacial ease, and carve the grave in which you now rest.

I made you up so I could wake you up to tell you my dreams in the folds:

I felt the love of a former lover.

We were on land and it grew cold;

We were warmed by one another

Under the moon—in that light

I remembered I remember

Who that was in my bed last night.

I can see her, can you see her?

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