Prompt: Write a poem about a moment of déjà vu you keep having.
My grandmother predicted a housefire from a single outlet.
Crinkling her nose, she told my mother never to use it.
She memorized the movement of the stars, traced lines across my palms.
There was an alarm clock plugged in for months.
Cassandra cried as my parents records melted, their pictures burned in the night.
Taunted and haunted by her green eyes,
glinting gold in the sunlight,
reflecting something no one else can see.
But she swears somewhere, it lives in me.
It's just a conversation, a few words and a feeling,
but something tells me we've done this before.
I'm filling in the gaps between lines,
remembering pieces of beginnings, endings,
already unraveling the pattern of time.
I don't think it's prophecy,
perhaps coincidence getting the best of me.
Still, I find myself looking into the light
wondering if I'll wake up to flecks of gold in my eyes.