Object permanence.

I don’t remember much of last year
(except hospitals and hardships).

I barely know what year it is now.

It’s like the concept of time
seems so distant -
insignificant.

I drove somewhere today,
to the quiet library I went to as a kid:
the kid’s zone where we played Magic School Bus,
the large windows that overlook the pond.

I sat on the floor, a thriller in my hand,
my back against a bookshelf as I tried to relax.
I got somewhere near page 48
before I couldn’t focus anymore.

My mind drifted,
my head bobbed.

I thought of calling you.
I reminded myself not to,
the ways it could unravel me.

I heard bits and pieces
of conversations that arrived,
then left before being resolved.

And I couldn’t help wonder:

Why? And how?

How does everyone interact?

Why do these conversations exist?

Why do I feel so impermanent?