Oh Bob Rasa, saint of the clean slate,

I have seen you muse on truth from

another dimension, and I want you back.

We diverged at birth, you see, identical

astral fetuses of this warm, amniotic plot

arc, and now, each choice compounds

the distance between us, greens your

grass with time and envy. Be bolder still,

imagine there really is a heaven, imagine

the weight of all your conjoined phantoms,

born of crossroads, dinner choices, minutes

difference in departure. You have stolen my

heaven, Bob Rasa, and I dare to take it back.

Do you hear my voice calling to you through

sleep, reminding you (so vivid, impossible!)

of past lives replete with friends and lovers

of the erst? Vacate, Bob Rasa. Leave behind

this stone depression for the impossibility

of “could have been” drawn in thick blue

van Gogh brushstrokes. Even Orpheus never

realized the true tragedy of looking back: dispel

the smoke, see me assume the throne you so

gleefully abdicate, see me scent the faint perfume

of sweet pomegranate on your lost queen’s neck.