Superstitions stitched like quilts; a patterned facade to comfort or quarry. But I'll believe in déjà vu.
Because time is a misnomer and love is real.
Sometimes when I'm about my lives I can't comprehend the acquaintance. The absurdity of coincidence. The entombed conversations, predictably new.
Well that's all well. I've sensed my share of the explainable, sure.
But déjà vu is closer to my heart. To believe is with conviction of the subtle hints of her in the marrow of my logic.
I know her smell, and I have seen our breakfast nook. So I believe in déjà vu, because love is real, and time is nothing but a line, cast out in wait, for the love we already will.
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