The scar on my leg is the past embedded in my present. 

The poem on my tongue is a litany, a hope that our stories make sense in this sky.

The sleep in my eyelids is a cousin of gravity, a separate but related serious force.

The words in my handwriting are unrecognizable; the pen in my hand is envisaged. 

The notes in the singing bowl are hummed by passing vehicles.

The dream in my head is living without you.