It is a miracle for people to love each
other, in spite of the fact that people
are people. We are so minute and
small in this ocean of want. How
we part like clouds nobody watches.
Is there beauty in what’s unknown?
I’m sitting at a cafe, alone, watching
filled-out city buses run to death.
Heads like mason jars filled with
thoughts nobody will remember.
I can’t help but relate everything
to you at some point. It’s an instinct
to bury myself in memory. Come on.
Think of simpler times, think of the time
we were bent sweaty making guacamole
in the kitchen when you stabbed yourself
with the knife, the seed a spared child.
We had to call an ambulance and you
were so afraid that you would never
write again. The gap in your palm,
first a fleshy blue, then purple, like
an evening sky after a fisherman’s day.
The shape of that wound is carved
still on the walls of my mind. I trace
it from time to time to remind me
how delicate life is. How it all
hangs on silken thread and
frayed knots, a fire threatening
to devour it all. The power
of a few centimetres, the fear
of the hit and miss. The scars
that have yet to form, to heal.
