The space between me and the end of this 500-mile pilgrimage. The calm between skin diving into waves rippling my uterus down and a new human breathing air. The last time I took his face in my hands. The second before I forgot who I was and now. 

It’s nothing and nowhere between two points, just a firing of lightning and elements fornicating in my brain. But it seems so real.

Realer than the hangnail that tore white from pink skin, got infected, and screamed at touch. Realer than her black rimmed stare that sneered my 8-year-old heart into the corner. Realer than the cardamom main line from chai to nose on November mornings. Realer than the “F” I will receive if I write instead of read. 

It’s just time and space, memory getting confused with all the parallel universes. But it seems so true.


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