Weaving Memories

Tonight I passed the supermarket where we used to buy groceries, you and I, and I thought of your legs weaving in and out of tomato stands, and later, weaving in and out of my thighs. Perhaps our relationship is like a basket, green strands of grass twisted together like a bunch of memories. A basket is round, and open, and able to hold the chocolates you gave me for Valentine's Day. Or maybe it is more like a nest, and I am still waiting for the eggs to hatch, like that silly bird who continues to collect twigs, not knowing that her eggs have been replaced by rocks by evil scientists. They laugh at night, as they test the shells under a microscope. I refuse to believe that our love is like a tapestry: A useless adornment to an ancient wall, fading from its woven glory, frayed at the edges, where once there were little birds and flowers. If I were a bird, I would be a hummingbird, to suck the pollen of your little flowers.