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Part 1: Time Goes By
April 2018: Wow you’re a superwoman
March 2018: You’re a really – I mean I knew you were from our texts, but you’re a really formidabble woman
February 2018: It’s just… you sound and act so sophisticated
Jan 2018: Wow you sound so serious… do you have a sense of humour?
Dec 2017: Haha are you always this quiet?
Nov 2017: Idk, you seem to not want to talk…
Oct 2017: Are you still there?
Sept 2017: It’s just like a little hard to talk to you
August 2017: Yeah you seem like intense
July 2017:
June 2017:
May 2017:
March 2017:
April 2017:
Feb 2017: “The conversations were the best part”
Jan 2017: “You’re just so easy to talk to.”

Part 2: Time Stops 
But this is the wrong order to read this poem.

And it was the wrong order to write this poem.

Some things work themselves out in the after. Threads untwist. Sometimes they cut, kite-like, and violin string-like, organs away. You feel empty.
You hold the past in a mirror.

You see that confused face in it that is you – was you. You see it reaching into the lines and expression of your eyes. She cries.

So you cry.

One day, you hold the past in a mirror.
And she stays there, suddenly. You tilt your head, curious about her, but not overly so. She plays her game, mime-like.
She plays her game, Simon Says-like.
She throws her reflection out into the world you are in.

You see her confused face  that was you.
You smile instead of catching her expression in the lines of your eyes.

“Cry with me,” she says, pouting.

“No,” you say, smiling.

There are two of you now, maybe more.

Before learning to read the future, you must read the past, without letting it become the present.

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