There is a man on
a hill in a suit with an
envelope for you.

When you wish and pray,
its not to anyone, but
very well may be.

The envelope is
worn and yellowed and has holes;
not enough to see.

Undisclosed, both the
letter and the prayer. Clear:
scene before unfolds.

And the shortness of
your breath matches the nighttime.
Though, its midday still.

Crossing life and time
the man on the hill in the
suit comes closer. Though,

he is not moving.
Nor are you. The space between
is shrinking. Life shrinks.

Reaching for the note,
nighttime breaths return. Broken
and the idea

of past and future
collide and become neither.
And we still wait: still.