I write alone, from memory –
memory managed by ink spilled out in the past.
There’s an edge of a bubble that is punctured,
an instant distance, relics for the shelves and walls.
And there I’ll be, leafing through these scattered others.
This is all so strange.
I am finished; I am starting; I am lost.
I am starting to be finished – I am lost.
Drowning at the looming of the bubble’s edge,
drowning at the looming of the drowning yet to come.
Time-warped scraps – the dream continues on,
unphased by the approaching of its limits.
And so I’ll sleep, all while I doubt the dream continues,
and then I’ll wake so I can dream some more.
All the world’s blue ink on paper,
made coherent by our future selves.
Image credit: Mike Savad – Time Waits