Your voices

ring in  my ears,

a shout, a drone

a phrase I don’t quite catch.

The century is collage

and time is relative, we know

but timelines can’t be edited,

and this is why theory

trumps practice.

I want you with me.

I want you to know

that I survived

that maybe you’d be proud

that I think of you all the time

and that you’re still real,