Don't Lets

I have been waiting for the universe to contract again, to get shriveled and manageable, like a rung out dish towel, grey water slipping away. And it's as simple as if my fourth grade teacher is standing next to my desk, her hand on my shoulder and long hair making so small a sound I can't even hear it.

"You want this. You don't want that."

Expand the moments you enjoy; the longest memory of my life is a crescent sliver of beach worn rippled by the river's sighs. Artificial tide coming in and lapping the colored bocci balls in falling twilight.

I hope god just keeps doing the dishes, wiping the counter and squeezing the rag of existence.

Don't lets go so long forgetting again.