vapor

only the hint of a scent
a memory buried deep inside
that pulls like a fish hook
in the mouth of the whale of memories
suddenly the sky is the exact shade
as it was that one morning
the trees smell fresh and new
as if sprung from the pages of a book
who painted this vista
on the napkin of past?
when the colors should have eaten through
long ago
why is it visible now
in frightening clarity
as if the past and present
have fucked through each other
and just like it appeared
it vanishes, leaving a thin wetness
like vapor