Poem: Lost in the River of Thought

I misplaced my name
somewhere between the reeds
where the river keeps
its unfinished sentences.

The water knew me once—
called me in silver syllables,
pressed cool hands against my ankles,
asked nothing I could answer.

I followed anyway.

Downstream, the current carried
half-remembered faces,
a porch light left on in rain,
letters swollen shut with time.
Everything drifted past
as if the world had been thinking aloud
for centuries
without ever reaching a conclusion.

I bent to drink
and saw not my reflection
but a thousand possible lives
breaking apart around a stone.

Somewhere beneath the surface
old conversations tangled like roots.
Regret slept there.
Desire too.
Dark fish with luminous eyes
circling the hooks of memory.

And still the river moved—
through forests of hesitation,
under bridges built from almost,
around the ruins of certainty.

Night arrived slowly,
pouring ink into the water
until thought itself became current,
and current became distance.

I could no longer tell
whether I was searching for the river
or whether the river
was remembering me.