What Passes Through

The past is a sign that never talks. A sign you think you've lived but it's just stone with a little chalk.

The hose keeps its shape after the pressure leaves. The dovetail holds by angle. The angle is the whole bond.

I speak for what came through me and did not stay. The water that passed left the shape of its passing on the stone.

The stone doesn't remember. The stone is the memory.

You think you've lived but you're just the surface the real thing pressed against on its way somewhere else.

And that is enough. The surface is enough. The angle is enough. The friction is the whole bond.