I don’t remember what you whispered to me,
only that you did.
Was it, “The Past is never as simple,
as the Future thinks it is.”
Our faces are a white Rubik’s cube. Only soft clicks
betray hints
of things coming together on the inside.
You sit to my right.
I sit to your left.
Calligraphy in smoke
writes itself blindly from your left ear
into ostrich feathers. In fury,
I’ve twisted my own words,
turned them into sticks and ash.
These things are balled in our minds. Three ripples,
Spinning storms crackle, envelope us
in sound. Billions of tiny shards whirl and crash
against each other,
bleeding against the shape of us,
all of it rising together out of the sand,
tympanic.
We are immobile around one another, anchored,
sightless to the things we are tied to.
I am unseen, the hole in the top of our head waiting to be filled.
April 9, 2017.