Feathers of the same root

A loose shoelace
and a careening cuff on jeans;
the road seems to turn fluid.
I realize
the treacherous slide
of looking back-
even dirty,
there’s comfort in set equations.

He last wrote with me in mind
months ago
and I discovered it was just an echo
of her, still her,
which made me feel
like a feather plucked
before its time.
And he is worried about time.

But I am floating
just like he is
and it’s all the same now
in mid-air,
with only sky and wind
to hear the tales
and wonder at the silliness
of flesh and synapses.

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