River

Tell me what you used to do, far from the river, deep in the woods while we talked, sitting on a rotting log, near the river we first met, in the snowstorm of the past, now settled, melting, as if the future brings with it, a spring of unknown origin, when I used to tell you my stories, you told me of, my mistakes, and re-wrote my life, to fit the tale you wanted to tell, but I felt the moon encroaching, on our spot, by the river, and moved a cloud to hide us, our words slipping out from the corners, of our mouths, and slithering, like lampreys, into the river beneath us, moving like a sea encapsulated, by the stringent land, waiting for its time, seeping through the rocks, for millenia, and as we sit, even now, in the river, the river of my mind, I ask you questions, you refuse to answer, as the river rushes over and through, my eyes, and, yours.