Interstellar

Often times I notice how the edge of my heliosphere intersects with yours; in such bizarre motion that hauls me to the same loop of conundrum all over again. Inconvenient gestures that come into sight because; expectancy arisen; yet solicitude that interferes. Whether or not my conjecture makes sense, or your presumption is legitimate. Questions that we could answer harmlessly, but we choose not to.

In my universe of books, white coffee, oil paintings, humans’ expressions immortalized in black and white images, you happen to be the wet empty bench in the midst of a city park. Lonesome, unharmed, but seemingly refusing to be saved at the same time. What am I in yours? Amongst abstract tunes, movies from the 50’s, Darjeeling tea, and pages of short movie screenplays?

Perhaps a dusty shoe on top of the rack of that store. Attached to the other pair, unable to be saved either.

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