Scrolling through old photographs
I stumble to remind myself
I am not the person on my phone
(or in my poems, for that matter)
I thought about it last night
How the philosophers say
That no body can hold infinity
That we never are what we once were
(not two years, or even a moment ago)
And at some point a heap of sand
May possess so few grains
It must be called something else
And maybe nothing lasts
And living is a surrender to this
An unfurling dance of loss
Maybe. But today
All that comes to mind is
Your perfect fucking laugh
Hair like burnt sunlight
Text chains and heart stains
And the remarkable fact
That somehow it is October again
And I am thinking about you
