to the past, from here
Your hands are something I am not quick to forget.
I feel you
like a void, through your palm a tunnel back to when we sat on the edge of a cliff with our toes in the
grass, or when the rain was gray and you looked like shit and we pursed our lips together to go our separate ways.
I cannot reach that deep anymore.
Do you know how to get to the past from here?
I seem to have lost my way,
and I will write a comma there instead of a period because I don’t want the sentence to end and it should have an ending but I don’t want it to, I want it to have a ‘but’ or ‘because’ or anything that makes me sound less adrift.
Yet still, I am adrift.
There have been so many me’s before me that I am not sure what to do with my hands, when they are not just hands.
To be a tool is to be helpful, but therefore used, and worn, and in this great game I can’t seem to make something durable.
I, I say, like there is a me more whole within.
That great crystal will never bind together again.
I, a fragment.
II, I couldn’t tell you about.
I cannot reach that deep anymore.
Through your fingers, I peer starboard, to the things you still hold
The great kaleidoscope revealed to me
dizzying and vast and there is a hole in your hand
that goes straight to an unending hall of doors;
Lay your palm flat upon me
like a beast you have tamed before.
8.22.22