We are not here. This all happened so long ago, and it happened in the sense that we are listening to the story we are telling ourselves, about who we thought we were, and how we hoped it would be. But we are somewhere else, watching, listening, to the Deep past while never really being here in the first place.
How do I get to you.
Beyond the reflections, beyond the mirrors that hold my own face, the
lights that phantasm otherness, witness me, apparently live. How do I find you in the horror of my own
mind, hold those things there, well or poorly built, but still, efably not you.
The stars are heavy, heavier than all. Would I find you there? At the bottom of everything, if I dig, into
each fiery heart, forget freedom, let go, fall into where you might be, dive
into suns to find you. I keep the light
so distant, not even a breath on my wrist.
I have climbed far to get here alone.
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