The memories were there,
and then not so much. Body
parts still performing complex
movements, the origins of
same vaguely discernible in
my thoughts.
The past has befuddled itself,
so much so that my preceding
moments blur—no points
of reference to sketch the next
few seconds of my fate.
The tolerance of those closest to
me, perceptibly fading. I am now
their burden, a juxtaposition of
lives never meant to be.
They look away when I smile.
But I have the now, no past
or future ambiguities. I see it all
with a visionary's certainty. I'm
alone, without knowing it.
Neither my birth nor my
death will precede the other.
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