Today
I face the
unequivocal fact
that I, a fragile flesh
of heartaches and sleep
and daydreams that glaze my
eyes over like melted caramel, am
not composed of only me. With the silver
cellophane of time's soft grasp unbounded, and
its laws set to decease, there are three of us. Not one
Not two. But three. Past. Present. Future. All breakable
as bones, and broken as the shimmering shards of
glass left carelessly about, memoirs of soft summer
evenings and sunken suns. I am responsible for
all of us, piling work atop Future
and depreciating Past, but rarely
stopping to blame Present.
These three selves hold
the worry in my
neck bound
tightly.