As I approach, the years limp away like burned out celebrities,
they just became a boring book, granted, with the requisite
exquisite exception of that one anecdote, that one particular
turn of phrase, blasting from the past clumsily cringeworthy,
leaving its unique mark scratched onto that one weird year,
reasons stacked like walls of books, floor to ceiling,
the dust of memory collecting all over the place, without mercy
betraying no love lost in its out of reach shelf real estate
-- must've been one of those, one that you just can't forget
because regardless of how many years end up stacked
in every room of your life, it does not help you overcome
that sweet chaos of unbridled envy, exposed, for all to see.
the nine endless lives of your inheritance, dustfree and impervious
to the fleetingness of recalling it all piece by piece,
hoping it will finally make some sense once it is put together,
but knowing deep down you will never be anything else
but the source of food, there to nourish and hydrate
the one thing that survived; a toothless cat
and the smell of her life slowly floating away into the night.
