Trying to find your fingers between the words written, a way to pry my hand into your palm. It’s not enough to simply read and let go. I study sentences and slip through time, waking in memories that are not my own.
Is this how ghostly figures come to be? Have I finally learned to summon my spirit?
It is hard to keep track of the ground
Because my heart beats above my head tethered precariously without muscle and bones.
But this lightness helps me walk on constellations, traipsing shared starlight.
Thoughts escape like dandelion seeds, each one a wishful daydream:
For mundane musings, memories and reflections, questions about time lapsed and folded.
I am curious about everything.