in moving on,
it is to say,
that a moment never happened,
that i never knew these people,
that the man in the picture was not myself.

it is to say
i never cared
or felt
or was truly there
or anywhere.

the past is made as mysterious as the future
the things seen now unseen
the places travelled now unvisited
the gifts exchanged now worthless
the people met now strangers forever.

how can we forget ourselves?
how can we delete a feeling?
who do we become
once we have revised
the stories that led us to where we are?

the past is now remade
into a forgotten dream;
bleary-eyed now awaking,
the hollow present stands
as the only thing we can call real:

 biting,
 sad,
 empty.