In a tray of clear liquid fumes rising under a red glow, an image on paper struggles to be born, then blurs over in a heartbeat. More light from above brings no more clarity and no memory surfaces. Only impressions of times and places left too long in the night beyond reach yet forever familiar.
Thanks for reading this, and let me know what you think. If you like it, like it. And leave a comment if you want, as any feedback is helpful. And,… subscribe so you can get my weekly poems via email.
—Alex
My initial post has more about Aphantasia. Have a look, and the poems might make a different kind of sense.
