Vestige.

Such pleasure we shared, though on waking, like something overheard at a cafe table.

A sentence underlined in a book you’ll never reopen.

One said, “Like lace,” then “ghosts”; the other, “fingers, or rivulets”—of the fine white
sand that blew across the mica-blackened beach.

The scrim effacing memory.

The partial shedding of our bodies when at the movies.