Cosmic thread

I'm losing my way in looped yarn of a short-row scarf. Ridges unfold pathways in the mind. I am amazed. When I reach the end of the last skein, I must cast off. Pull the string through a subatomic aperture and there will be no more yarn unravelling in the dark, no parallel universe, only this finished bright garment demarcating a finite, colourful ecstasy.

Someday my molecules might sprout and unfurl from the back of a sheep on a sunny hillside in Auvergne, sigh under the song of a lonely shepherdess. All things really began in the remote future, on a steel girder planet under ice-cold galactic night. Time unfolds backwards. A heron lowers its neck beneath still pond water and releases fish into seething muck.

They say, at the end it only matters how well you have loved, but in ten to the power of fifteen hundred years it will not really matter. How does passion coil out of endless silence?

It only matters now. I open an atlas and see your names scattered and blinking like fireflies. Darkness bleeds through until hair around one face sparkles starlight. Your head catches a halo off the mirror of a moon.