Little slides flipping by when I pull a lever,
Black and white; when I reach the end they just start over again.
I watch them until the evening comes, light dipping behind the sill of the window and
shattering on some picture frames,
exploding around the room before
That's the most finite way I know to say goodnight, but even these slides dim slowly
and I could not say when I went from making out faces to making out
nothing at all.
There have been days,
days I remember
days I can claim as my own.
And there have been days,
Days I wasn't me
Days that have drifted by.
Five, the years and then the lies.
Years I struggled to make sense of the places that came to me the words that were said by me.
Years I bit my lip and made it by
Years I made it by.
Years I never recognized and was never recognized and never recognized and
Years I never felt like me.
I recognize those years now,
and I can find myself in them now,
but I can't recognize today, rising from a pile on the floor as the sun sets behind the sill of the window,
and in still silence sinking back down to the floor.