I continue to disassemble that night in order to determine a structure that I know will never exist.
There has to be a beginning, middle, and end, right? What if the beginning is left out in the sun and fades? What if the middle and end blend in such a way that suggests a faulty memory? I can create what I can't live; I can remember what I can't conceive.
In the sky the moon was hidden by clouds and I almost blushed at how perfectly fitting it was. I tripped over a sprinkler and made an obscure joke in hopes that it would be a distraction. What were we distracting ourselves from that night? What did we refuse to observe?
There is a practical impossibility of dissecting what has died of natural causes.
Your fingers, the branches; The moon, so small with my one eye closed. I could crush it if I just tried.