To Our Absences (eleventh letter)

We’re still in process.
 
Everything is at stake in deciding where and what we are.
 
Each suggestion of coordinates obfuscates what might have been or could be.
 
Every naming is a death,
 
an imposition of desire upon the eternal.
 
The collapse of time and space was meant to be imperceptible,
 
but it’s you and I who are nowhere to be found.