Ten Fourty-three P.M.

And now I draw and now I fly.

I fly and sing.

I sing and dance.

I dance and play.

All the things I started yet never finished.

All the things I dreamed but left for the imagined.

My world is now made up of the imagined.

My world is now real.

The real is known.

Memories are hard to find.

Harder when they have been still for so long.

Absorbed into happiness.

Fixed under bliss.

Resting undisturbed in a belief that this was right.

This was better.

Belief that I would never think about it again.

The truth is,

Is that I wasn’t allowed to speak about it, but

Oh did I think about it.

Every second of every breath it seeped into my reality.

It became itself imagined.

I imagined that I had imagined it.

.

It’s broken.

The sky broke when I was allowed to fly.

The sky broke because I sang to her.

I whispered.

I tiptoed.

I slide right by.

I sang in familiar tones. I echoed what she had imagined.

I became what she knew.

She tiptoed and whispered.

She tried to slide by.

But in those quiet, mirrored movements we drew something new.

In those timid, mirrored movements we traced lines to…

The lines were already there.

They had been etched back when it had all begun.

Unearthed. Copied. Discovered. Recorded.

And again.