playing chicken

Here it is: the longest game of chicken.

I’m over here, you’re way over there, and we are moving so slowly toward each other that no movement can be seen. (How do I know you’re moving? I don’t, I guess. I guess; I hope?)

No dodging. No flinching.

It’s a still-life. It’s a mirror.

Did I see you wave your hand? Is that a white flag?

No. It’s just a trick of the light. These are all tricks of the light, and I have been so long staring ahead that your outline might just be burned into my vision, a ghost from last year’s sight.

What would a head-on collision destroy? Do it: let’s see. I won’t turn, haven’t turned away.

Turning away might have been an option, once. We could have moved ahead on our own paths, unobstructed. But there was always the smallest magnetism, a pull, a needle always righting itself to pierce true north.

It will be over, eventually. One day I’ll look up and you won’t be there, or you will be one millimeter forward. Either way will come as some relief. Neither way wins.

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I acknowledge that I live and work on stolen Cowlitz, Clackamas, Atfalati, and Kalapuya land.
I give respect and reverence to those who came before me.