1842, 2148

I tell you I long
to vanish into a year
where I am not myself —
1842, 2148, I do not care —
any year at all that holds out
a certainty of erasure, one in which
the person I am now
couldn’t possibly exist.

You ask how I cannot believe
in myself, in how I could be
a reincarnation of a past being
right now, and that if so
I was likely myself as I am now
back then; you don’t understand

how I cannot hope
that next week someone
will make a breakthrough
on immortality and I will indeed
remain myself far into the future.

You ask how I could deny myself
such possibilities. I lower my eyes.

I cannot look directly
into the face of someone
who dares to see me
as worthy of either.