Literature
elsewhere, ever and never
you exhale
and light licks at the edges
of a dustcover, a book unfurls itself
in a fluttering of pages. how
is it you still occupy this
this this
this cavity- so much of it
and so prominent?
this place I thought had gone- and has
gone-
was never filled,
and still exists in liminal spaces of me.
for sake of argument, I imagine
myself, in hypothetical version-
in parallel
universe
and
you
tangled,
pulling,
tilting
wanting
tracing starshapes
into every bit of skin and synapse,
yearning the map of you
into memory
endlessly
it was always real
and imagined, both;
it only never came to be.
and I know this exercise of thought--
the soft glancing light cast toward an event
horizon...
it shivers itself into me like a breath
long held in lungs, forgotten.
as if not my own, but
shared.
I rest on a singular certainty
that somewhere in the quantum, maybe many
many
many versions
we are
.