Some times

Some times it is just a pony-tailed girl, on a counter squeaking from thin lips ,like what is right with you and/or wrong ,about a body backward, a certain way your blood flows back against its walls.

Some times it is rain on the tarpaulin ,an empty rustling of leaves ,a slippage from the corrugated roof of dried fruit ,a hissing song through a tooth missing ,a microscope viewing the purple liquid for squiggly little worms, in white shirt ,a white uniform with a hanging necktail.

Some times it is possibility of ceasing , imagining a world without you, in internet of things, its meme of continuing ashes ,a name forgotten in the heap of ashes scooped up , dissolved in a sea of stars.