Many men in my many lives, they come and go. And as they leave traces of their loving memories, a grander pattern is formed. These traces tessellate into one another. And as I contour the shape in my aloneness, an appearing continent bursts out of the flat.
Will I see you there? Will you see me here?
Will I become one of the many women in your many lives?
As much and as deep as I can, I inhale the centuries you’ve lived from many miles afar. I don’t care if it’s the biting gust from your winter, or the refreshing air from your spring.
I will become one of the many women in your many lives. I will someday be mixing with the stories of your open-ended centuries.