what was it we whispered?
in the womb that was a car.
was it of warmth and awakening
and of the finishes
to another one of
life’s many miny missions?
why was it so funny
to pull the strings of our reality
out of their neat weave,
and see that nothing,
nothing was behind it?
i asked if it was only absurd
or sad,
sad for our nostalgia
for our dirt and sky.
there wasn’t an answer.
and we saw our lives as
antique chessboards we could
push to the side,
like any other thing.
the only truth settled on,
daily, is to let go and sleep.