When I think about my life before you

It is like reaching for

Fragments of a melting dream.

I can taste the flavor of it, sort of,

But it doesn’t feel real like

Remembering my own life should feel.

No, it feels like dipping a net

Ripped with jagged holes that split off into

Fragile netted tendrils that tremble

Like Man O War tentacles into the water

In seek of fish and you feel a stirring–

Life tugging at tangled space–

And suddenly you are sure that the fish

Is captured and yours, only you lift the net

And there is no fish–

There’s nothing. It is just

Empty air and a net with a hole in it,

Water dripping from frayed and

Twisted green twine, holding

Nothing even remotely so real

As your own life.


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