I reassemble,
The wind flows backwards to your hands,
I am returning from whatever version of “beyond” you choose to believe,
Each particle caring a manifest blessing back with it.
Perhaps tears flow up your face, retracing the progression of grief down your cheek.
Or maybe I was an awful at the end and in rewind you whisper “dead is bitch old that god thank.”
But either way that is the past… or the future,
It isn’t prudent to examine such distinctions now
It’s movement not direction that matters.
My form is re-forged by fire,
My bones smoothing in the heat
My flesh hardens from liquid to coalesce around my uncooking muscles,
And still I rewind,
Personality and character drifting through the cobweb wrinkles of my skin,
Till somewhere in the dynamo of my body my heart finally beats its last “bum ba”… and then it’s second to last.
How strange is a life lived backwards?
Would words taste different in my mouth, have new meaning in rewind,
Would I find satanic messages in my everyday phrases or just speak in nonsense, a string of “a-blah-blah” that takes too long to be made sense of.
How different would my actions be?
My hands could peel away bruises, unbreak eggs, and suck insults out of the air
Yet who would be responsible for these miracles,
Some dreadful foreword version of myself.