who knows or cares about past lives or lives passed,
when there is this one before us.
there are moments
when i’m sure i’ve seen your back arched,
naked like roman architecture.
the words we correspond with;
they are not of this time.
yet, we speak fluently in their dialect.
it is not the many characters that you cultivate
that set you far apart.
it is the one who would create these characters.
that is who moves me,
who i dream of from a distant shore.
in your repetitions
you are singular.
in my writing i am one.
you are an alchemist
who turns gold into glitter
that is worth more than diamonds could ever be.