We tried, once.
Attempted an adjoining.
No one cared or cares.
It’s not a point.
THE point.
.
I never wanted it to mean anything.
It never has.
(I never wanted it to).
Never really thought it could.
It might.
It doesn’t.
It won’t.
Hasn’t.
.
The only point I perceive
Is our dismissal.
Evolution.
Another term we use for mortality.
.
Something hopeful.
Never helpful.
Just is.
The way of things.
.
I’m not here.
I’m not anywhere.
There are birds.
Polysemic Stupor 
There are birds. Thank you.
There are thoughts. There are birds. If there is a difference. If there is a similarity. If the edges matter, that always move and so erode by degrees, then it is only for moments. And the bright dream of them, (so tender and awful), is the same, or different, as the shaping of a mouth to find words. A weaving of the insubstantial air to push outwards. When it reaches another mind, is it still yours or become theirs? Nested, seeded. The mind we do not own, though we name it ‘home’.
There are friends. There are words. There are hugs across the distance. x