A Change in Weather 

Two years

Three months

Nineteen days

And I proudly say

To myself— I am over

It all, and that the

Past I cried 

Over, is now only

A piece of memory.

But guilt follows

Almost immediately 

For my life is a series

Of alternates, that

Frequents between Used To Bes

And Would Have Beens.

I am no longer seen

Contemplating the vicinity 

Of familiarity, from afar,

Nor do I dig up old 

Books and blow away the

Dust to welcome a night of

Lamentation. But small

Things: like a change in weather 

Or a stranger word uttered 

Or the lack of a thought 

Encapsulates me.

And I drift backwards,

Tempted by a greed,

The kind that pulls you

Forward, only and only, 

When you embrace 

The free-falling.

Even as I say so,

I don’t know what 

I mean, for every

Change in weather,

Or a stranger word uttered,

Or a lack of thought 

Pushes me into the

Ethereal denial of

What can be,

What will be,

And what is.

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