My possible futures
Are full of beautiful, breathing detail
They have names
Textures
Laughter
I lose myself
In their familiar smells
Their touch
Or at least the way
I imagined them to be
Someday.
In the end
When it’s clear
This future
Is not to be
I have this strange habit
Of distraction
Via
Vivid photos
Of abandoned places
Where once there was life.
This time it’s
Chernobyl
Everything is poisoned
Nothing can be touched
by Julie Blue 