Dear Me

Wondering at this moment in
a partial insight or an old memory
incompletely stirred
if you and I keep up with anyone, really.

I miss your hands,
personally; I miss my own eyes and how
they’d flash a bit at what anybody said
if it didn’t fit what you thought.

Dear me, if that’s who you were
when I thought those things: I miss
my sharp tongue and your brilliant eyes
that now are enclosed in sad skin.

Dear you, if indeed that’s who you
became afterwards: I didn’t know you
or who you became, I wonder sometimes
if I knew you at all; now I am laboring

to know you, to know anyone in fact;
I used to know everyone so, so well. Dear me
and you: you never got a chance to be here.
You did not see your way past the husk I became.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T