Ritual

I rattle and rummage through my memories,

not knowing when I began or why,

traversing in spirals,

not unlike Carlotta's lock of swirling hair,

to cling to a phantasm.

Almost involuntary,

it appears unannounced

like a mysterious malady, 

fleeting few moments hence,

gone, lost, into the house of voices in my head. 

I hear echoes of her laughter,

discovering mirth familiar

tinted with opiate dullness.