“...because in these moments when we remember, we are but fragments of ourselves”

in these simple quiet moments, when i am utterly and most assuredly alone
that is when her eyes appear most vividly behind my eyelids
that is when i know just the right words to say
that is when every moment is now but i am wise enough to know its weight
and i hold this blinding moment in my shaking hand
and i look deep upon its every surface and begin to peel back the layers
and i wait for the sound of its heartbeat
and i listen intently for it
and i know that somewhere inside it is the perfect instant
the feeling of which comes back to me
in the empty, inescapable moments of solemn, secret sorrow
when the entire world is turning but I
I am standing still
and with every slow-motion symphony of movement and pause
there is a new and painful twist to the maze
there is a dark and hollow place sanded to smoothness around
there is a sense of the unattainable so strong that it overtakes me
my better judgment lost to a cause unknown
and every bit of me was sure I could do something about it
but now I know no knowledge of pertinent use
just memories and masks
just misspellings and malcontents
just misery and melodrama
just me and my thoughts to gather
as a shepherd sheers his sheep
till they are cold and irrelevant
so am I in these two worlds
one where I am needed, cold and distant to labor
and one where I was king but no more
throne-less and alone with this bouncing guilt
in the empty, inescapable moments of solemn, secret sorrow
when the entire world is turning but I
I am standing still
because in these moments when we remember
we are but fragments of ourselves