a word

i guess there is some kind of dualism
between the perception and the perceived
between the bettor and the post.

in that way, it's only small stuff that holds our name
that simulates us the way we simulate ourselves.
it's only arrivals and departures
split seconds that hinge
the huge doors of our lives.

the little remonstrances
like: "you're not coming home again", or,
"you never got to say".

sway fragments of information on how to fill that initial gap;
playful squirms of backwardness,
they work in tunnels ahead of our thoughts
so we may then call them zero points.

more puzzle pieces of what to find
behind the corners.
arrays of blue, chemical fading and time.
tired eyes of tired days
limbs heavy with inconsistencies,
and seven year long years.

and finally we collect what we sowed:
independent of fallow land,
dry spells, barren soil and unmerciful weather.

a crop that's neither edible, nor venomous
the gap between what's credible and what's not.
in one word, trust.