every day is becoming an anniversary of something.

every day is becoming an anniversary of something.

the present moment seems to be a distraction -
for the etches of the past, and the blur
of a future of geisha dreams,
of fantasies of big movie screens -
are what
consume
me,
constantly.

was i always this vacuum between
the anchors of the past,
and the panic of the future?

or was i different,
once?

no matter what i hold in my hand,
i gaze longingly at the skins of
possibility, the skins
of what i can
not
have.

and then once the grains slip
through my fingers i sit here
in this pond of phone numbers
of loves i should not still remember
i want to
call the happiness
of the past in hindsight and
fly once again with the dreams
of a future i once had
before.