My past sits before me in a cushioned armchair
mimicking my crossed legs
a swaying foot

I’m so focused on its story
that the walls surrounding begin flickering swiftly
yellow, grey, violet, grey, yellow

in minute intervals, everything else vanishes
except a voice that travels from there to here

the words ever changing as they go, and finally settling upon the tips of my fingers

then, comes to me, names that nurture the weeds in my veins
from my first love, a bright doe
through the birds, vampires and ghosts
all the way to Pan

to cultivate this breathtaking wildflower is my fantasy
so that its fragrance will entrance me into a state of sleep
and take me to a place where resolution is needless

between me and the cushioned chair
are miniscule grains of actuality blended with accidental lies

I know there’s no literal plant
just as I know that there’s no literal resolution
and that it’s not really my fault

I was always good enough to have it all
therein lies the perfect balance of pain and joy

for I do not have any of those people anymore, this is fact
for that’s just how life works, this is faith