It doesn’t matter how far away I get from it. It stays the same. A row of a white lights.
Maybe you don’t exist.
Maybe I don’t exist.
I’d kind like to climb over the railing and swim in the river, just to see.
There’s dead fish in there, don’t.
It doesn’t go away.
Growth, I suppose, is knowing that it doesn’t have to go away and being able to say thank you.
I still don’t know what it all means,
But it stays precious.