In a year I’ll be scattered in the wind, I know even if I memorize his name, his hair, his knees, and he does the same for me, that these memories will have nothing to stick to. They are not bound to any atom but instead, a hum emerging from arrangements of them. Under my breath, I pour water for both of us and he’s still half-asleep, getting ready for the next shift, a great transformation at the scale of the body, at least on the surface. That is my life, a simulacrum of something that lives a life, made up of fragments of weeds, that happened to form through wind walking the streets, gathering into a shape. There are forces that dissipate through chance, and arrangements through chance do not happen, but sometimes do, even without how something like, a will. The plate beside the laptop beside the vase near the wall, near where I want to be, by the bed by the chair and its end for a very, very long time.
standalone poem