kaleidoscope

from the archives, 5/30/24

Briana Rengifo (Illustrations) / Getty Images

i dream in a language
i no longer see in. 
worlds fragmented through a 
Kaleidoscope.
each day is grounded in the principle
of multiple reflections,
never truly knowing which is my own. 
lines etched by murmured goodbyes 
in the moonlight,
hopeful kisses of a shared tomorrow, 
tattooed tears of now strangers that share 
my blood, past lives, and nothing
of the present. 

i sleepwalk using the flimsy red string
that tethers us as a lifeline. 
our last connection,
when we’ve no longer memorized each
other’s numbers by heart,
still guides me home
but i never wake up to your voice anymore. 

each morning, i stir trying to figure out
where i am,
looking around for a sign to decipher if 
the plane ever took flight 
or if this sleep cycle was never disrupted
by the phantom of a Homecoming.