Teleportation

It says on the sign

There was a boy standing in the spotlight of the sun looking

“Teleporter”

at an old church wall. There he saw two white hand prints, the same

it takes you

size as his hands. It was still wet, he brushed away the dirt and rubble

anywhere you

fascinated with its shape and light. The wet white paint glistened

want to go.

on his bright brown eyes. The warmth of its radiance lured him

The shortcuts

towards its surface like the man on the moon reaching for the sun.

through light

Slowly, the boy’s hands landed on the hand print’s rocky white

and the crevice

facade. With the blink of an eye, he heard a voice calling his name

of a door.

from the window of the old church. The voice a sweet whisper of dew

Fragments of

trickles down from the absence of sound to the tangible realm of

silence engulfed

words and sentences. With the blink of an eye, he is on his feet

in a seashell.

running towards a door across a sea of green grass, his feet touching

With the blink

the space between the concrete road and the moist of rain. He stopped

of an eye

abruptly, the window of the sun reveals the church in the center. The

the soft whispers

door opens its mouth and calls his name. The familiar voice of dew

of the wind

enters his ears and draws him in. The boy walks towards the voice,

carried to the sea

the new walls coated with fresh white paint filled his nose. His

dropped on the palms

hand brushed against the wall it was warm in his eyes, wet

of a lost lover.

and smooth on his hands. He looked up at the window and saw

Moment upon

a girl the same age as he with bright brown almond-shaped eyes,

moment drifting in

black hair up to her nape. She calls out his name through the

time that stands still

window. The letters formed on her lips turned into words

with the blink

acquires shape and form into sentences pierces his eyes and tickles

of an eye.

his ears. The boy enters the door of the church the aroma of varnished

Morning collides

pews touches his nose and the light of the chandeliers blinds his eyes.

with evening

But the boy does not waiver he moves along stairs and corridors.

not ready to

At last, he reaches the room with the girl with the bright brown eyes

surrender its glow

shy hands reach out, the forefinger makes one small step but the

to the moon.

hand ignores the giant leap. He looks at her and opens his mouth

It is memory

the butterflies refuse to come out. The smooth white skin of her hand

that departs

touches his. Her hand fit in perfectly under his palms. She looked

not time

at him her eyes said, “it’s all right I don’t understand either but what

with the blink

I know is this the time we have right now is real.” It is memory that

of an eye.

forgets not time. With the blink of an eye he is gone. Back to the old

The present

church wall and white hand prints. The boy looks at his hand and

trickles down

sees the white paint. He forgets the warmth he hurriedly wipes away

into the cleft

the paint on his hands. It is not yet time, it is not yet love. With the

of the past

blink of an eye he is already a man no longer a boy. Back to the old

seeping through

church wall and white hand prints. His scarred and calloused hands

the window

much bigger than the print. He reaches out to the memory of childhood

to the future

a lady with bright brown eyes walks by he touches her hand and remembers

with the blink

of an eye.