inexorable yet subtle, the past crawls away from us
every day in the manner of circular breathing,
each moment of experience an exhale of memory into the misty void,
droplets of the present collecting and filling our mental
reservoirs, overflowing when the current moment escapes us
in a flash flood down memory lane
every storm looms on the horizon, thundering nearer and nearer
until speeding by, going to rain on some other parade
we have no present.
the only trace of hours passing is dew hanging from our skin.
if our existence is a house, the future is gentrification, apathetic to
walls we’ve painted and pictures we’ve hung,
the drywall from which we’ve constructed our souls,
the floorboards of dreams on which we tread softly
our future closes the walls keeping vigil around us, smaller and smaller
we change rooms constantly to escape the certainty of being
crushed, encased in plaster, wires, and insulation
until gradually, the routine begins to escape our notice
but look up.
i swear the ceiling gets closer every minute.