I find myself under God’s magnifying glass,
sitting on a log that belongs to the dead,
scribbling words in endangered trees
just to grasp my own spiraling sanity.

Beard so thick I cannot help but scratch,
and hair so long it’s edited my shadow.
You wouldn’t recognize me unless
you were looking in my eyes.

I wonder if I will recognize you
whenever we finally meet again.
I used to study each corpse I passed,
making sure it wasn’t you,
but then stopped when I realized
if you were dead, then I would be too.
So instead I think about the ways
you must have changed
over time, in this world of ours,
this land of the unplanned.

I imagine your skin is brown,
hair going passed your waist,
lips chapped and awaiting my own
to get them wet again.

I move my feet in the dirt
under this log;
a daydream of a distant cloud
that we share our sight on,
sky splotches slowly
guiding us back together.

Have you changed like the rest?
Have you killed for survival?
Have you cried until your stomach
started to hurt?

What do you eat?

What do you think about
to sooth you into sleep at night?

Do you think these same thoughts
when you think of me?

Do you think of me?

I think of you.

I think of the credits
at the end of a movie,
from when movies existed,
and how sometimes
there would be extra scenes
once the words were finished
rolling up that silver screen,
and it gave you a sense of relief
that just because something’s implied,
it doesn’t mean it is the end.

Sometimes things are just given
extra film time.