Appropriated Edge

Silver salvage. A colour and a word.

It could have been Polychrome Chaos. Maybe you remember when it would have been, but she’s gone now, leaving behind only a ghost of recall, as elusive as the Internet before social media, when all we had were usenet and chat clients.

I wonder where that woman went. I seem to have forgotten more than she ever knew. Whatever is left of her is kicking over the traces, all pajamas and unruly hair, laughing at jokes I wrote months ago. Was anything real back then? Are we getting better now? Is it safe to leave the house today? How can we be sure?

Does anybody remember what normal means?

Is it a colour or a feeling, this silver I have in mind? I know it when I see it. A metallic, reflective surface. A camouflage between the seen and the unseen, a place where individual and anonymous meet halfway. A suit of shining armor, or a cloak of invisibility. A shimmer.

Silver is currency in the palm of a fortune teller. Salvage my desire to move on, taking what I need with me.