Recall

When my thoughts disappear, I do not think they are hidden somewhere in my brain. I think they are licked up and recycled. If my forgotten dreams are good enough, they are pushed into the brains of dying people, so that the last things they see are the things I forgot – those towering, glistening hidden things I knew once and lost. The faint touch and smeel of them is still on my hands, the punguent evergreen and forest water trickling over ancient rocks. The people will hear the music of rustling leaves, they will watch seeds of beauty grow into curling plants that sing in time with the moon. As the people die, they will chase rainbows in their minds. Because I forget everything, and have nothing, I do the only thing I can do. I give.