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.

 

your words,

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.