Take me home to where I’ve never been,
where everything is spread before me.
Let me see it all from the center
and spend the rest of my days
chasing moments outward from inside me.

If I never catch up with any of my precious, fleeting,
memories, fragments, or untold futures,
it doesn’t matter. None of it does,
but these impermanent snapshots prove that once,
for an inconsequential instant,
these flecks of aging dust, spiraling through void, made each other happy.

Why do we reach for each other?
A question surely as large as any empty drift
with so tiny an answer, burning hot enough to light the vacancy:
we love, we wither, we fear, we die.

But deeper still, beyond the smoke of emotion,
we will see when we step back
at the end of all our days
that none of this matters, nothing is real
without a second mind completing and catching,
verifying the sparkling stars that fool us.

All these years that pass
are seconds racing by on some enormous clock
that looms above us, waiting.
We waste our lives, a gift that stems from this ancient timepiece
trying to outrun it, but in the end
we race into its rigid arms.

We feel always incomplete.
At birth we are torn apart, scattered
to race as we grow to find our missing pieces on the tumbling wind.
An impossible task, so we settle, only to find
that we are all the same broken part
repeated endlessly in our minds, desperate to prove
that we are not alike.

This emptiness we feel
as we look over our lives,
this isolation, all these are really fullness
so great and company so numerous
that we forget it exists.

Walk with me, dance, run, scream,
learn, love, fear, all with me, all for me,
we are dust, but we are dust together.