meditations from the archive
I asked if you thought I stared too much. Because I’ve realized that sometimes I will live through a lightyear in my mind and come back and still be looking at you intently. I wonder what I look like when I do this, what you think I might be thinking about.
Because I’m thinking about the galaxies in the irises of your eyes. And about the liminal phases of your smile. I’m thinking about the constellations of your freckles, and probably tracing them as I do.
I’m thinking about the path of the scar right above your eyebrow and all the lines on your body that tell the story of your life. Who needs tattoos with scars like those? I could read your autobiography right off your skin.
You said no, I don’t stare too much. Which is good, because looking at you and drifting off is the closest to meditating I’ve ever been. Sometimes you ask what I’m thinking about and I’m torn between two answers.
I’m thinking of everything. And I’m thinking of nothing. All at the same time.