foreshortened future

we rode the train every morning at 8:31am
the views from the moving cars were never once the same

were my eyes playing tricks on me or was the ticking of the rain
entering my brain via channels non-existent to the average man?

sent my words on a postcard because that way it exists in some place other then the now
or at least - that’s what we hope for when we post them
false suggestions of connections

pale hands trembling at the thought of losing an ounce of self
holding the pen that never seems to run out of ink

trinkets of porcelain under the mirror without the jewellery that you gave me
i’ve faced the horror of a lost love - meaning myself
i’ve taken in the understanding that a body is just a figment of our imagination
that it’s not us holding on to them
but rather them holding on to us - for the sake and hope of being seen

no longer leaning into possibility
the possibility of nothing flirting with the left side of my face
the part that holds the rational brain
non-stained projections of a life not lived

after this there is nothing
no life no loves no kids
or marriage
no funerals or job opportunities
no flowers picked on sunny days
no joy
no way to remain - or even want to

we plant the seeds that never come out
along the train tracks where we ride every morning
where the morning sun shone at some point or other
that we cannot recall
perhaps the green breaks the fall
perhaps the soil takes us before we can

-D.