Uncertainty

likes lying in bed with me. It helps me think of things
that are unusual and imprecise. If I sneeze, it whispers
that this moment, an unusual disease might be sleeping
fitfully in my body. When, in the middle of night, I realize
that I have dreamt of my father, (wearing his fisherman's hat), the wind
tells me that he might not be in a safe place after all. Yesterday, I bought
a new perfume. Enscribed on the pink bottle are these words:
Welcome the new you! This I do not do
but I say, what the hell.
Hell is another idea that I am not confident about. I wonder if
the fuss it causes really means the world
to that man on the street, saying I will perish someday if I don't repent. His urgency
is atrocious, somewhat contrasting with the backdrop of my life. He needs
something, he says.
Everyone does but we are not sure
what it is. We look for this thing we need everywhere; as if once found, it will
save us from things we do not know. I am saddened by all these
bodies, rubbing up against each other, saying,
however indirectly, You are not what I am looking for. And everyone goes
on with their lives, wondering at their loneliness, their sentiments massive weights
that they carry from one life to the next.

(This ambiguity is with us. It is forming a world between us everytime we meet. To bridge the gap, I imagine you old. We are in our last days. Nothing can ever change now except the shape of the moon, the position of stars.)