I am the collector of small infinities.
There is beauty in everything, but there is no beauty in me. I am the eye. That is all. Your undone sweater. Its unraveling strings. You are the universe sometimes without knowing it.
Your wrists. Your wrists.
Don’t look at me. I am meant for the shadows but I will exalt you. I will immortalize you. Your slight sway, its heavy ways. It will not end how you imagined it to.
But it will end.
And the images I keep of you will be images only.
And you will be someone, someone from a long time ago. Their old sweater, its unraveling strings, and how I loved you.
And how I do.