What am I, past
just being?
An existence
of an experience
boiling down to
a universal experiment
in worthlessness?

I fold into
the paths of other people
and think so wholly
of a moment:

the girl with iridescent wrists
the man with music in his chest
the fresh skin of the stranger
who wears the scent of home…

I love them
as their dark eyes change
when they stop to show me
how their roads are paved
in every way.

they pass
so inconsequential
but I know them
and I see
the world hangs as heavy in them
as it does on me:

The dirty hands of the Lumberjack
thick-skined and calloused
the broken ring on the Beauty Queen
who only pays in change
the Shaky Addict
with shifty eyes
asking if I’ll accept EBT.

The moment
it moves past us
though I want to milk it for more:
Who are you,
and tell me your secrets.
What have you learned of life
that I haven’t?
But I keep moving on
past them.

Next please.

When I am alone
only then do I know
no matter how I long for meaning
in our interacting
I will never find solace in any soul
but my own
so I pray to the eternal Wisdom
for something more
than purgatory
but It keeps moving purpose
past me.

…Next please.

must be my existential crisis.
An immortal soul?
Kill me.
‘Cause I can’t keep coming back
to this…

Jillian wrote this.

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