Interstellar

by Birgitte Brøndum

Each moment

has a space before

its own

space.

These spaces

occupy most of a life

but we don’t

pay attention to them

our focus

blinded by itself

like in a photograph

where

all that matters is the cake

with bright, pink frosting:

everything in the background

is blurred out

into the kind of nothing

where

moving bodies become irrelevant.

These spaces

aren’t empty

aren’t like the ones

you’re reading

between the lines

aren’t here now

aren’t ours

aren’t anything

aren’t nothing.

They exist

in exits

in transits

in between

your hand reaching

and its reflection

appearing as a shadow

on the wall

behind you

as you

touch

me.