Would it make the slightest difference?

to accept the tumbling down with the knowledge that they have no time for you now that really they never had time for you not the way you knew or thought of time but only in the way that they knew time and the way that they knew time was fleeting and irradiated white and temporal as snow and the way that you knew time was as dirty and solid as the earth and you thought of all the uneventful days when they called and you answered and you never thought of them in the hours when they went their way and you went yours assuming that the divergence was only temporary this was just an ordinary day never quite knowing that this would be the place where they would say they have no time for you now would it make the slightest difference to know that you felt nothing to know that it hurt all the way out to the edges of your mind and at each breath living the expanse of your mind and your hurt would grow like a cancer or a rage or a dream or a mould

Categorized as musing

By Eleanor Jackson

Eleanor Jackson is a Filipino Australian poet, performer, arts producer, cyclist, writer, gal about town, feminist, freewheeler, and friend.

1 comment

  1. I comment rarely for I often don’t know what to say – and now will be no different – but just a “like” seemed inadequate. I really do love this Eleanor.

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