Rolex
Rolex
If it’s a creation,
then science and spirit should explain each other.
Not argue. Not compete.
They should echo.
Like a wave entering water—
and the water nods.
I was born into a field,
not a house.
The floor, the couch, the corners—
they didn’t creak.
They hummed.
The rooms didn’t scare me.
The electrons did.
The lies—
It came through pattern.
Through footsteps stored in drywall.
Through the breath someone forgot to exhale
Twenty years ago
My body is made of quartz that learned how to flinch.
It keeps time like a Casio—
$10 of stillness more honest than a Rolex.
Because truth doesn’t tick, nor dress up.
It vibrates.
Who said nostalgia is memory?
I know better.
Nostalgia is presence with a shadow
Eden remembered, but not currently lived in.
A waveform that still fits me
like the glow-in-the-dark stars
I stuck to my ceiling
before I knew how the sticker glowed.
Love enters and leaves no residue.
It echoes clean.
It’s a return.
A collapse in the name of peace.
A God crystal humming 32,768 times per second,
while we scroll past ourselves
looking for the next thing to react to
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