(as told through a swing dance and a physics textbook)
The boy is but an echo
The boy is but a tune
The boy is but a sharp
The boy is but a scuff in wood
The boy is but a pause between sets, a present
science promises pasts and futures
slip into each other.
I couldn’t tell you why,
I couldn’t explain how the fabric
of space and time dips
and spins and stretches,
but if you watch the dancers’ shoes;
how they turn on a dime,
when the floor becomes pure grease
and every glint of heel is a star,
you will understand,
you will see it in the way your friend
plays the flute, keys clacking.
It is all only interaction,
There is no “here” or “this”
just as there is no “him”:
he is only atoms momentarily stable
before returning to dust,
like some bible verse the liars got 1/4 right.
The boy is but a blip.
(It's been a while! Fittingly, this is also a poem I wrote a while ago that I just rediscovered. I wrote it while momentarily heartbroken, and after having read a book about time [The Order of Time by Carlo Rovelli, I highly recommend it], which made me absolutely lose my mind about physics and life and existence. Lately, I've been very creatively drained because of school, but I am writing some new things I hope to share soon :) )