What’s the point
if I told you a you
was elsewhere—
not quite you,
not quite I,
just remnants
of someone else.

And with another brain—
not my own—
she could speak.

What could I expect?
From you?
Or... you?
We’re all confused.
"Which me?"

One You will know
soon enough.
I’ll tell you slow—
Ready?

Impossibility.
Improbability.
Inevitability.

What’s my jean size?
Tell that to my genes.
Can I remember her eyes?
Tell that to my genes.
Will I decline as she did?
Tell that to my genes.

No one tells it.
Not You.
Not You.

Not him.

The doc,
the liar,
the gentle voice
who swore it wasn’t
what we knew it was.
Said “healthy,”
said “normal,”
said “no need for concern.”

By the time I was believed,
she was already
gone.

The rage
calms—
but I can’t forget.
I scream to know
it can’t matter.
Certainly not.
Not to you.

But hear this:

Survive to old age.
Your loved ones may.

And when that time comes—


you know...


the forgetfulness—


take away the car keys.
Hide them with your life,
so they don’t lose theirs.