Time seems too stretched out sometimes, like it continues on forever, like we cannot get out or move forward or really progress or transform or turn into something new. We just carry on with this black hole, just like the one in space, compressing evermore to shrink, squeeze, squish an unending volume to content into its limited space.
This is for what my eyes look like that. They always ask, anyways, eventually, when I'm forgetting to keep them normal. It's a dark space within me that's been filled until the density emits bright, shining darkness immeasurable. Therein is everything sweet and unanswered, all the details side-by-side: the day at the beach rubbing shoulders with a death I'd rather not name right now, the barefoot soccer match in Germany smashed up against the first boy to break my heart, a birthday candle blown out brushing up on a small flower dying on the dashboard of my old Mustang. Winds up heavy, but the same size, deceptive in its small consumption of space.
Within the marble rolling around in my heart is a thousand years, I swear, and other lives even. Just this life alone swells over edges and quantum divides itself to make room for tomorrow.
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