Pocket Abacus & Other Tiny Prophecies

I opened the door just wide enough for the water to spill through, Clearing the fog and that ever-present shade of blue. For a moment, it didn’t matter what was false or true— There was only me. And then there was the water, too. On the shelf sat an abacus—meticulously aligned, Beside a chaos of books and objects half-defined. And just for a breath—a fraction of borrowed time— I slipped from the sentence of solving unsolvable lines. Questions left unanswered, I’m conflicted that I’m somehow not confused. A moment in time no one could ever intentionally reproduce. Tracing full sentences into my skin, a war for two with no intent of a truce— The answer hanging in the air—you whisper under breath, “It’s easy to deduce.” Constellations dancing across the ceiling, something in that moment was healing. I had opened the door for the water without so much as a hello or a semblance of a greeting. Just me and the flood standing in a room with no sound other than a heart too quickly beating, Ignoring the world—and the floorboard beneath us slowly creaking. I stepped into the hush where no promises were owed, Where even the ghosts stood still, their memories stowed. No map, no guide, just a thread I somehow followed— Not an ending, but a place where something finally glowed.

I’ve been stuffing down the words until they no longer make sound Like a ball of yarn you keep spinning in hopes it’ll become unwound Below the bass you can barely hear the tires continuously pounding the ground Another night feeling lost and wondering when I’ll finally feel found Age is supposed to bring wisdom, at least that’s what they tell us as kids All it takes is resilience — some sort of natural born grit Smeared black ink on disorganized pages— the outline of a conduit Avoiding the excessive white spaces— conjuring memories like a forgotten Druid Most nights I’m stuck in an endless game of tag— chasing the concept of dreams I always was my best when I was balancing out two sides of what seems extreme A weird melancholic blend of feeling both happy and sad A constant assessment of what we should subtract and what we should add Numbers weren’t my thing— if I were being honest neither was math I’d rather be hidden in a corner holding a pen precariously above the pad Waiting for the words to flow; hiding my thoughts inside of a blot of ink Watching the lines as they grow and then as some of them start to shrink Life is just a dizzying array of stories waiting to unfold— waiting to be told Reminders that each of us go through passing seasons even if some of them are cold Wisdom isn’t as simple as knowing what’s right and what’s wrong Sometimes it’s just learning and expanding the places where you belong

I think the night that I met you my frequency changed— It’s either that, or maybe I’ve finally, truly gone insane I don’t think it matters, honestly, if it’s either way Silver linings now painted on the ceiling that once held clouds of grey It felt like finding pieces to a puzzle left unseen A shifting of the static into something calm and clean It’s strange to find a refuge where confusion used to lean A frequency so quiet it feels almost like a dream Most things aren’t what they seem, regardless of how they’re portrayed Trying to thread a needle with a string that’s deliriously frayed The undoing of an overly complex puzzle or an unseemly braid Unraveling the answers to questions that you continuously try to escape I stopped searching for reasons to pretend I didn’t care Stopped forcing every feeling back behind a practiced stare The walls I’d built for safety now just echo with your name I laid my weapons down and you stayed all the same No longer examining the constellations, trying to find a clue that this is a mistake No longer lost inside the walls of an ever-shifting garden maze Closing down the files and notes—the ending of a dead-end case I turned a corner, and suddenly all that was left was your face A lesson in patience silently folded into an unexpected embrace

I find myself silently watching, waiting for the sleight of hand. Unmentioned moments that I don’t think either of us had planned. Fighting against the pull, my feet slowly sinking in the quicksand. The constellations above me hum with things I’ll never understand. Do I keep trying to run, or do I accept the defeat? Questions I ponder each time you don’t miss a beat. I could ask the thought out loud, but you’d render it obsolete— A moment that reminds me maybe it would be safer to stand on concrete. I find my mind floating somewhere above, wrapped in clouds, Pondering my sanity and pushing down the hidden doubts. Dancing beside the line of stars, mapping the bruises from forgotten bouts. A single drop of rain—the completion of what felt like a never-ending drought. “Sometimes I just know things.” Our eyes meet from across the table. Just for a moment, I didn’t care if this ended up another story or a misguided fable. Another synchronicity that I refused to announce or label. An invisible string that’s starting to feel more like a bungee cable. The more you fight, the faster you sink—be careful, the risk could be fatal.

What if it’s not about the answer, but instead about the question? A world that skips the journey—eyes glued to the destination, Lost in the weight of others’ perceptions, not reasons for celebration. Perhaps we all just need to breathe, or find some form of meditation. Alone, pondering: does the story truly end, or does meaning grow beyond the page? Or do you find its wisdom only as you truly start to age? Some arcs are fleeting—a glimpse of light that fades again, Yet life’s most beautiful moments are often quiet, mundane. Even the leaves know—the only certainty is change, Life isn’t a series of chapters, carefully chosen and arranged. Happiness and power aren’t bought; they’re earned with thoughtful intent, And even in the darkest shadows, guard the spark of your own flame.

What would happen, if instead of running—we both decided to stay? A door we locked years ago that’s somehow now left slightly ajar. How many times can we repeat the same cycle of mistakes before one decides the prize is no longer worth the cost of the stakes? “You know the definition of insanity, right?” My cheeks, a vibrant scarlet, as I look at the floor. I could make a run for it— my hand, mentally, already on the knob of the door, recounting the steps I took before that led us into the coldest of wars. I choose to avoid the soft spots on the wooden floorboards, escaping the heaviness that creaks from the baseboards. At this point, I can’t tell who wanted it more— this chaos I’ve spent ten years trying to explore. Synchronicities we try not to define, each one dismissed as something that isn’t a sign— just a coincidence, just bad timing, just a version of you I kept rewriting. But what if the story never needed a plot twist, never needed a war to make peace exist? What if the ending wasn’t meant to be clean— just two broken people choosing something unseen? And still, I hover in the doorway, unsure if staying means losing the game. But maybe the real insanity was thinking we ever left things the same— when neither of us ever truly leave.