I find myself writing imaginary letters
to the past, what might have been
as if the re-structuring of backroads
and memory could change the past,
eradicate it, enhance it, or make it so.
Every time I slide behind the wheel,
I am ranting, like my grandmother
cursing Cromwell in empty rooms.
And then I wonder why we get stuck
in this loop—call it a Möbius strip of desire
endlessly repeating itself ad infinitem.
Call it eternity, or call it infinity
if you want to involve math.
But math was never my strong suit.
When you add it all up, we are binary stars
searching the galaxy of the past for our other halves
embedded in the iridium dust of memory.
Paste a Forever stamp on the envelope.
The address is forthcoming.
Return to sender.
5/4 Write On! Susie Terence
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