I’ve always memorized bathroom ceilings:
Submerged, looking up at faces in its texture,
Light reflected dancing ripples on the tile walls,
Watching my voyeuristic friends in forgotten corners,
Quietly observing me from above.
My true Piscean solace,
And it was odd, how the thought emerged;
“Nothing heals me like water.”
My mantra mimicking the rhythm of the tide,
Created by the horizontal push of my toes from the faucet.
I dream of water; the ocean.
Inside me is a longing,
For the impossibly familiar cold Irish beaches.
I can still taste the fog, thick in my mouth,
Feel the sea spray on my face.
I’m never sure if they are my memories or some other lifetime’s;
A forgotten life or a touch of the divine
Little breakthroughs come in waves,
Like pieces of a movie
And someone pushed rewind.
Almost like wading through the pages of an old photo album,
You never know if you remember hearing the story
Or if you were actually there and experienced it.
They are my salt cracked composite images
Of some other life, place and time.