no neat ending
no perfect line
no coming full circle
just a hot and heavy mess
planets crashing into stars
abandoned futures
meant to be futures
ended
before we even pictured them
not making the turn
at that one intersection
one crossing
one point in time
alive and half gone
still alive, the cosmos
looking at itself within
me? - decaying corpse
liver and bowel and bladder
ha, my eyes are blind
my corners are mine
look somewhere else
I won’t show you a thing!
there are at least four hundred layers
to this conversation
a million endings
left unsaid
stay inside
the infinite whirling machine
missed chances, alternate futures
a cocktail of synchronicities
do you believe in telepathy? I don’t.
in coincidences? maybe
statistical anomaly
let’s hand it over to science
let’s go on with mundane lives
a mundane world
nobody cares about the blindsided
cares about whispers
cares about handwritten letters
and their ink, the velocity
you call it weather forecast
turning into a drizzle
the feeling of rain on skin
it is very real to me
how to forecast a feeling
that sucks you out of the concrete
I drift inside all four hundred layers
all of them at once
the entire signature of significance
the ink is hot and red
what does it mean?