Evening

Suddenly, it is getting dark and the temperature drops. Stand and face the field, with little purple flowers amongst your toes. The world makes noises: it is noisy but silent: it is louder without people. The air bustles through bushes and leaves. A million insects flutter and crawl and buzz and hum; crackle all about you like static. Birds rummage and call, trees expand and contract; rustling, creaking, shift. It is almost deafening, pressing into your ears from the distance.
Breathe in, a huge breath of cold air, deep, filling your chest.
And you knew. You know this place. You knew you would end up here. You are who you saw as a child and wanted to be, secretly knew you already were…You knew you needed to be here, knew that it was right. This place you do not know. Breathe out. You knew which number to call, which direction to go. It all slips back into place amid a million different distractions of irrationality. The space continues to sing in your ears.
[I know this place. I’ve seen it. I knew I was waiting for Friday, waiting for today. I always knew I would be that girl; this girl. This girl with purple flowers between her toes, with huge dark fields before her; with cool air to lick her skin and cool earth beneath her feet.]
Breathe in. Here is Everything. It is all at once, with all of its contradictions and opposites in tact. Air floats from lips. Pink ribbons of it wave softly serpent-like, unattached, holding space gently together. They tickle as they stroke past the edges of the brain. Some are fat and some are frayed and fine, some are chopped at the end and smack into the air; others are a disintegrating network of barely visible threads. They tickle smiles, brush the wrong direction, pet where they're not wanted; Deeply; or softly to comfort; they niggle past, they sting and prick, poke, and they snap suddenly against pinching air.
Where is this place? Here is where breath is suspended between a sob and a grin, on the limits of suffocation from this pressure to the chest. Peace, laced with exhilaration. You can breathe out whenever you like.
What's the time? This time is the sensations of now, or what might be now. There is an ache, in the throat, from knowing that something is happening now, somewhere; being missed, lost, given away. This time is being, fully being, not there. Does it feel fuller and stronger than somewhere? This time future regret is visible and acceptable. You can’t change a thing.
These legs, these hands just follow. Perhaps this is revisiting, redoing. This is choosing to do it all wrong again. Déjà vu, on a rocky niche downstream; when the others have left, and you lie back next to another body, you look through bare shrubs, up to the cliff face and leaves above, water below, and someone else’s breathing reverberates softly through everything. You had been there before, and it has gone again, now.