Fresh like my attitude and provincial
like my sense of reality, togetherness.
Trees staring, prying
fingers aimed and scratchy, lingering
in covalent memory, those void
of pain, pressure, an epiphany-like presence
of point and lunacy all
at once. Because there is no control
there, only a piece of string taped
to a plaster ceiling, hanging forgotten
but no less prevalent, a message
from that other version of you, the one
I flounder to smile at, with, before, tell
it I miss you, and it will listen
In ghoulish silence. Only that reality is
distance, as am I, as is another earth
on which we learned we weren’t that
special, spacial, that we were done.
