The lines inside my palm
the creases in your elbow
and the code in the corner of this page
we just read.
The way the drape hangs over there,
and the pillow.
The car passing outside — who was that?
I was there, even though
they had no idea.
I stood outside and watched.
Or sat inside here, typing. But,
that happened.
Somewhere, there’s a record.
Surely.
Like passengers inside those white lines across the sky. Going.
There must be evidence
of that life lived. Far away.
Even in passing,
even so peripherally.
It’s one thing to take the picture, put it on the fridge. It’s another whole
thing, to simply stand there and watch the world go. Sit quietly. Be in the corner, where you are not seen. Where no one knew.
But you were there. It’s true. And you know.
When you live like that, as if everything matters,
even the ordinary is sublime.
Especially — the ordinary.
I pause, and let that sink.
It never will.
My life leaves an imprint, un-reconstructible,
but an imprint still, as surely as
my birth.
And it lies hidden, encumbered, like a rock
under the sea.
See?
Now you know.
