I like to think of the cracks in between,
the wavering backdoor to every story.
This door is always overlooked, and has come to accept herself this way
but she knows her existence is as necessary as much as it is neglected.
Her opening is the one which lets the breeze in
delivering a sharp relief in the stifling heat of the room.
That breeze which creates the current underneath every word,
swaying each letter, left or right in the cavities of your mind.
These words then create images, and images sounds, and sounds actions,
Or perhaps the other way around…
Do you think differently if you lay on your back or on your side?
I like to dream of houses that never touch the ground,
Of feet that have learnt to glide like fish in water
To the rhythm of the sun
And blood throbbing through veins
I like to think of the things that might have been, but weren’t
of the songs that might be sung but aren’t
of the World with a different kind of tongue
of History with a different face
and in that moment when I look at where they would have stood,
they stand.
Fractures insinuate misunderstandings and estrangements yet
the rifts I found here bloom.
Just like the inverse mirage, eventually you come to see,
all the things which might have been, have been here all along.
