Everything I know is everything I’ve always known:
Shadows are only shadows to those
who’ve seen stars, who aren’t
locked away in caves, tied with chains, caught behind bars.

But even stars are not necessarily what they are
today, but now only light from white dwarfs
yesterday, because nothing
red or hot can survive this inflation, this
long ago explosion and dilation.

I could never drink enough to warm this
mistimed chill, could not fill
this continuous
listlessness, this
consistent malicious spiritlessness, and still

our universe, everything, once tight with absence, an
impossibly dense vastness, all knowledge, the very
last sense, will burn
off into a nothing
to which we’ll inexorably return, and

meanwhile, I will go about losing the things to say in
trying to find the ways to say them, and

will go about forgetting the thing I am in trying to
remember the ways I was then.

Even when everything is covered in white, and
up is down, and left is right, and
being over is through, I won’t
ever feel right when
I’m left
without you.

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