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?
