pt 7

The last thing I remember fits into this thought:
All anchor is cold metal.
White and soft paper in strips playing over the face lit by twin candles flicking up rings of warmth to the ceiling. Some song about icicles in a sweet little girl voice, chorusing round as a wheel. I dipped through pure water with your hands. My arms articulated to your frame, your arms attached to my shoulders, stretching toward spring blossoms. I could never reach enough. I could never reach them hard enough to be with them. I made a video of them. I am arms of you and light twinned at a bell-clear song. The arch is made under the will to be true. To be true is the blond flash of memory, her smell. Her tiny feet. The last thing I remember is petal pink and falling from a branch. It moves on, and up out.