there is something in my mind,
like a memory stirring from deep sleep.
something about back alleyways
and things not meant to be seen.
it's a memory made of black and white
and the occasional red
is like the riding hood so far untouched,
to be tarnished, torn apart
and left undone.
it's a memory at my fingertips,
something warm and cold all at once.
and every now and again i can feel it,
like the ghost of a hand at my waist,
or on my shoulders,
or rising up my spine...
a kind of knowing that exists only
in those deep spaces
that are not meant to be seen.
they are just known,
like the instinct that guides
the north to the south,
the dark hunter to the bright red.