Returning

Something sits unsaid and never takes form but seems lifelong, a shadow that occupies a space and yet has no shape nor gives a hint of where it's from. It falls across the mind from up ahead or reaches out of somewhere behind, way back where memory hides or comes falling from above out of air or rises up from a pit. It curls up in a corner of the soul like an itch, unreachable, a wayward nerve carrying a faint pulse, a twitch as if telegraphed out of the contractions sweeping across the dreams of a sleeping God. It sips on the ache that lies just beyond what can be grasped, calling out to life cast in the clay of its brief existence to come back, to return once more to the endless dream out of which it was born.