of the string

as my eyes roam, over the front seat, across the nape of your neck, your hair pulled up. messy. I’m listening. the New York lockdown felt like an invasion. what is good in pronunciation? that thick accent and my eyes drop to the front seat, where her legs reach under the dash. slow goes my eagerness.

even as the roads gives way, the mind eases into a rhythm. “ the whole thing felt like something the government did to us”. match that with the memory. the open way of telling the story. not the whole story, but a piece. mindful for unconditional positive regard, “ I lost everything”. the story is in pieces cut with a laser. I was slow to respond with the truth. I would have liked to talk more. I would have asked.

what is drawn to us, is drawn up from the depths of our vibration. what is created in us, is part of the string. on the string, moving forward along it. of the string, we are all made of its fibers. call it stardust. call it carbon. call it radiation.

“ there was nothing anyone could do, it who you know with the NYPD, they would give me a few hours here and there”. the state refusing the state. this is your restart. that star collapse won’t be cut from your story. this isn’t chance. I’m counting on the recreation and the retelling.

art credit: -Painting by Anne Magill, “Nocturne”