poem
The Pocket Abacus
(a small prophecy with wet shoes)
I opened the door just wide enough for the water to spill through,
Clearing the fog and that ever-present shade of blue.
For a moment, it didn’t matter what was false or true—
There was only me. And then there was the water, too.
On the shelf sat an abacus—meticulously aligned,
Beside a chaos of books and objects half-defined.
And just for a breath—a fraction of borrowed time—
I slipped from the sentence of solving unsolvable lines.
Questions left unanswered, I’m conflicted that I’m somehow not confused.
A moment in time no one could ever intentionally reproduce.
Tracing full sentences into my skin, a war for two with no intent of a truce—
The answer hanging in the air—you whisper under breath, “It’s easy to deduce.”
Constellations dancing across the ceiling, something in that moment was healing.
I had opened the door for the water without so much as a hello or a semblance of a greeting.
Just me and the flood standing in a room with no sound other than a heart too quickly beating,
Ignoring the world—and the floorboard beneath us slowly creaking.
I stepped into the hush where no promises were owed,
Where even the ghosts stood still, their memories stowed.
No map, no guide, just a thread I somehow followed—
Not an ending, but a place where something finally glowed.
Clearing the fog and that ever-present shade of blue.
For a moment, it didn’t matter what was false or true—
There was only me. And then there was the water, too.
On the shelf sat an abacus—meticulously aligned,
Beside a chaos of books and objects half-defined.
And just for a breath—a fraction of borrowed time—
I slipped from the sentence of solving unsolvable lines.
Questions left unanswered, I’m conflicted that I’m somehow not confused.
A moment in time no one could ever intentionally reproduce.
Tracing full sentences into my skin, a war for two with no intent of a truce—
The answer hanging in the air—you whisper under breath, “It’s easy to deduce.”
Constellations dancing across the ceiling, something in that moment was healing.
I had opened the door for the water without so much as a hello or a semblance of a greeting.
Just me and the flood standing in a room with no sound other than a heart too quickly beating,
Ignoring the world—and the floorboard beneath us slowly creaking.
I stepped into the hush where no promises were owed,
Where even the ghosts stood still, their memories stowed.
No map, no guide, just a thread I somehow followed—
Not an ending, but a place where something finally glowed.