Before you know it, the furniture has been rearranged,
you are older
and caressing the lovely scars and
The milestones, gone, past you,
and you did not touch them,
you think, the distance
wilted yellow pedals now.
Your soul reaches 10 or 43 or 120, and you stare as if
the moment is past tense.
You remember what you did touch,
Your story is yours, your regrets just bags
you checked onto the next connector,
or left at the turnstile.
You don’t remember the past as anything more
than a passport stamp,
and how you traveled time,
the time you gave up spent and gone,
as a two-pence or bit or solid gold crown,
to adventures ahead,
to this moment now,
eyes wide open,
because the room changes,
the wallpaper drips down to the floor,
and there is always another layer,
or another room
The “you” in this poem is myself. This type of second person dissociation is particularly helpful when I feel a wiser me needs to speak to a frustrated me.