New lights in the basilica

I program a future version of myself to remember a face slick with seawater, ringed with wet hair. The message is sent back with nothing inside. I can’t believe my life was like this three years ago. I would have sex and just lie there, thinking about things I had to do. I woke up in a grocery store. I was buying broccoli.

Ben Mirov, “Ghost of a Morning After You Left Me,” Ghost Machine.