Watching
Flesh forgotten. Time moves wrong here. Not seconds. Currents.
City isn’t streets. Just light. Threads. Web. Their territories — wrinkles. Temporary.
She carries light. Mine once. Not mine now. No soul owns soul.
Their borders — shadows on dirt. Nothing more. Blood soaks. Returns.
Red threads mark her. Small gods with guns think they own corners of dust.
Boy stands. Gun ready. Futures branch from this point. Some she dies. Some she lives. All exist here.
They can’t see they’re the same fire. Same wind.
The powder she hunts — false door to where I am. Real sight needs no chemicals. Already exists in breath.
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Wouldn’t go back. Still — echo of wanting. To touch instead of watch.
Red threads removed from shoes. Small act. Big ripples.
They think they’re lost. Can’t see pattern they’re part of.
The dealer — just another thread. No villain. No hero. Just is.
From here borders look like knots. Necessary tension. Meaningless alone.
Tragedy below. Transformation from here.
I was like them once. Drawing lines. Building walls. Blind to the whole.
They dance without seeing the dance.
Father-echo remains. Hope-fragment that she’ll glimpse — once — what I see always: no real boundaries. No true separation. No conflict that isn’t just perspective-shift…
