Bench-Ship

The bench is not a bench; it is a ship of breaths.
The slats breathe to the rhythm of the rain, ready for docking.
It glides past the railings and guides steps toward invisible waters.
The reflected horizon is a trembling memory.
The rudder is a breath you turn to go back.
The drops make sails and whisper what you forgot.
Crossing silent waters of the rain, where lost memories seek anchorages.
Every sail is a question that remains open.
The engine is quiet, but vigilantly listens for silences to emerge.
Names and places, like small stars, return upon the map of clouds.
The lights of the streetlamps become lighthouses on interior ports.
The past aligns itself with the rudder, ready to depart again.
When the rain falls silent, the bench-ship stops at the edge of the heart.
New harbors open where there was once only wind.
You set sail lightly, with a newly born memory between your fingers.
Thus the journey becomes home within, story without.