I know who he was.
Was.
Wizened old men whisper the memory of their lives,
chanting dreams
—a feeling that lingers
like the life in a child’s toy
long after he left it for other loves.
That word, Was, rises
like the familiar scent of a forgotten room,
the sssh of wind slipping among the pines.
You know who you were—
today’s memory, yesterday’s reality;
today’s reality, tomorrow’s memory.