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.