I have lived this life before. This sharp, insisting consciousness.
A cascade of coincidences now a matrix of poetry and pain, pining and power.
Two pins fall in an expanding universe, too loud to bear.
What is so special about stardust, anyway? Every organic being risen from it, crumbles to it.
Perhaps to be secure in love is to allow in yourself the petulance of a child; the confidence to declare, than request, affection. Always “I know you will love me”, never “Do you” or “Will you?”
Perhaps it is to have a child’s guileless cruelty. The way they close a palm over the powdery wings of a butterfly. To hurt not to harm, but to understand their ability to do so.
Perhaps it is to have a child’s notion of ‘forever’. Not years bore in tedium, chained to bills; unforgiven words. But a captured moment of joy in silo, a perpetually shaken snowglobe.
Perhaps it is just that. A return to form. A certainty distilled from untainted trust.
Q 