Stone Skipping

What was, now isn’t — what will be, not yet.
The taste of perishing cold on your lips and nothing
else. Uncomfortable comforting
laughter at the surrealism of ourselves.
This is too… not close enough.
I’m looking at the future through breathed upon glass,
a shadow on the other side of this
liminal space of slivered possibilities.
Perhaps in a hundred sunsets the glass will be clear
and this side the faded memory we’d like it to be.

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