Stereoscope. A Poem.
You lived within a sphere of scorching sun, tropical rain and green grass.
A thick bubble floating in time, upside down from the outside.
A small infinity, containing a million squashed stars, rich with sparks.
We have a never-ending story that repeats in loops, rewinding yet again
when the end comes too soon. Replaying through my light-projecting eyes,
gradually becoming more bitter than sweet. If I tilt the compass to the west,
I can still talk to you, see your fair skin and dusky hair; fading to translucent tones
as I question everything. I bounce the looking-scope and shake it in my hands
to see if the memory will blur or waver; to make sure you were real,
to confirm if you ever existed at all. You happened in a time lapse
that cannot be touched before or after but only within – even the time machine
is beginning to forget the heat from the summer sun, the drips from sweating
ice cream cones. I try to grasp the smells and sights as they dwindle and evaporate
into the air like the steam from the burger stalls opposite us. The magnets from our poles
slip more each day; the particles lose their pull as the sphere ticks and creeps over.