Out passed the belt,
planets undone by circumstance,
out where light dwindles into dreams
of all that has been conceived but not yet,
out where things will one day be and then
not,
over and over again;
a recurrent theme, a line of lovers all
different,
all the same.
Out beyond the small rocks,
sometimes planetoids, sometimes comets,
the bang and the whimper, tied with strings
or severed knots,
out there a person can think for days,
that, with the absence of light,
fold in upon themselves, become alternate
realities,
about decisions made
and under the swell of all that time -
for without light and in the vacuum, time
is a guest
at best, at worst
a shape-shifter between past and future
tensions -
and in the warp of all that thinking
lose themselves to human red shift;
drown beneath memories of what is
compared to what could have been
if only selections were made by weighing
the opportunity
instead of escaping (and so reinventing)
past whorls.
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