Thursday 2/12/2009 12:32:00 AM

The trigger was moist. Soft like a pencil after many drawings. Little travellers. With heavy diagrams. Sure their tunnels. She ran into herself there. They argued over the decimals. Between time lines. But they were both wrong.

They wrote letters to the future. That they envisioned someday they would deliver. And others to the pasts that they were afraid to send. They decided to go back together, but that didn't work out.

She stroked the dial on her forehead. Sweat like tumblers. The lock coming closed. She tapped gently on the glass and found in the resonance something familiar. A warm coat in a relentless winter. Minutes. Hours. Years. Parasite on the skin. Convincing it can go anywhere.

She told herself they would meet again.

And hoped that she was lying.

Of all the hers. In all the dimensions. Why'd we have to meet in this one.

I think I left the light on. And I would turn it off. If only I could remember when the light was.

| Alcoholic Poet Home |
Copyright 2005-2024. All Rights Reserved.