I’ll be twenty-four twenty-seven
next year
and I still don’t know and now i know
how much time there is
in a year
but I can count backwards
to the day we met
and I can’t chart the phases
of the moon
of the moods
that marked
my waxing and waning interest
the tides that took you out
and brought you, finally, temporarily
back to me
now, I try to keep things my hands still
a port in the storms
a lighthouse
an ever-fixed mark
that looks on tempests
what can i say
despite everything
some things hold
I hold them close.
i am not who i was