Those moments of pure sanctity,
When you lean your head and rest it against the window,
The future brushes on your face;
being in the present for a heartbeat;
Which was possibly skipped,
And then becomes past.
That moment of rush when the past doesn’t even get a chance to make an impression,
Because what’s ahead is rushing towards you,
And it won’t stop.
One tries to squint eyes in hope that everything would seem familiar for a moment,
But the lights are too pretty to be generalized.
Those packets of time travel like nomads in the ocean of possibility.
They failed to make an impression and that gives a space in which possibility can easily squeeze through.
They are like half-forgotten memories.
So one tries to fabricate the missing half because it is too important to remember them.
You will turn your head to see the pretty lights a little longer,
And so they will have a home.
But only temporarily.