I dream of Einstein     and lightning   describe the splintered            tree to you over text

how I saw the blitz coming                 before anyone else          You write to me about                               

space   about time                   that gravity affects      how the days   slip away 

     like a whale                        pulling in krill                         Sometimes I worry                                                    

our clocks are moving at different     speeds            There is elasticity                    to dreams too 

                        the brain          shifting through tempos          we are not aware of when awake                   

Love            you once whispered    into my clavicle          

      We think all of space is out there      but all of time is as well                 I thought of flipping

a coin               or dusting a window   and on the other side               of this year

    is another    of younger me             dreaming         that I’m on the news               reporting how my

heart                        fleshy and wet             has fallen from my chest

            and there is a younger you                  awake                          smooth chin                

                        learning about how     there is no such thing    as “singular” time

     how time is different     depending on how   close    you are to a heavy object

I share all the stories   in my mind                  when I’m asleep          but you say      you rarely

            dream                          and love                       I unspool                     a thread in my sheets              when

I think about how much                      time                                         has passed                  since the stubble

            on your cheek anchored          me to you     I flip the coin     

    try to see the other                          side of years from now           but it feels like                        that

moment before              I hit the ground     and wake   not scary          but

   unknown      I ask you if all of time   is happening             does it affect the order

        of events              You say    sort of                     I keep dreaming      we are      walking

                        through a dark wood               Do you remember       when we hiked

              an Oregon forest        and you said               You will be loved for the rest of your life

                        If we    stood near the sun         and looked behind our         shoulders

                would we see              the universe of moss           under our shoes    Would we see

            the morning after        sore      eyes still closed   our limbs feeling like roots            struck

by a charge of nature      by something that always appeared farther     away    than it was

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Casey Reiland’s work has appeared in trampset, On the Seawall, Hobart After Dark, and elsewhere. She lives in Washington, DC. You can find her on Twitter at @CaseyReiland