Confessions of an Amnesiac

Photo by Steve Johnson on Unsplash

I’ve forgotten —
not a thing, not a place,
a person.
I can’t recall.
I almost catch it in my dreams,
almost view it from the corner of a drunken eye.
There is someone else I was supposed to become,
I’ve known that all along —
fearless and tragic, genius, comic and strong.
Something I was meant to do
and did not even reach for.
I’ve forgotten, and for weeks at a time
can forget even my own amnesia,
or accept it so thoroughly
that the wisp of loss
is as common as coffee cups.
It tugs, like a sound not yet heard,
or a face recognized but unremembered.