Acervator

The shock of something incoming
That matches what’s inside your head
That hasn’t been matched in some time—

Recognition, sweet deception—
Your brain sings, I’ve been here before,
But that’s not actually what gives.

You were never in this courtyard,
Never under these exact stars.
It was another year. Planets

Reflected different perspectives,
And your bare toes on the warm stones
Had other living cells, other

Signals to other thoughts loving
The pleasant touch of similar
But different bits of blown sand.

Think how many times the courtyard
Has been swept in the months between,
How your acervate memories

Have tangled, grown, and shed their spores.
You have not returned. You have not come back.
You’re a close match for more lost world..