The murmur was there from the start:
the chill of a train passing by
a silent station, the scent of
butter croissants in an oven,
a thrumming heart as your own hands
hover above lost memories
encased in light and film shadows.
Your fingers rub across wooden
benches, smooth from resting bodies
that have known the flutters of faith,
and you wonder if there are gods
who press upon minds like sunrise
dew on flower petals, quiet
and heaving with timeworn answers.
(© Phoebe Pan)