im still looking into a glass ball
instead of into your face
it has been ingrained in
me that i should call you
when i have a bad dream
about you
the way my mother used to
do me
(just to see if you
are alright)
i don’t care if it’s pseudo-science fiction or
creepy wishful thinking
i am so sure i can feel you and your
pain across space and
sometimes before it even comes to be
my life is a mass
of these vague
impressions i am trying to untangle my way through
i am shooting these dark
foreboding arrows from my groping heart
i am trying to guess your life
card by laid card
horoscope by ascendantry
careless word by random
rushed thought
i know i should be creating our destiny
instead of gazing for it
i tell myself i don’t believe in any of it
it’s just that i’ve inherited
this way of
putting on the pressure
(the same way she did me)
my way of having you tell me, tell me
what i already know, tell ME
before i predict it into being
and you wonder why
i’m so cryptic
