Full length negatives of the shroud of Turin
I’m not sure I can do this anymore,
dipping my body in dripping black
and rolling around on this
white sheet of nothing,
this Shroud of Albany act
where you can see every bump,
bulge, scar on my body,
expression on my face.
I’ve forgotten the script,
my lovely lines, my directions,
And you’ve forgotten me.
I shouldn’t be surprised.
This is a fleeting world,
a virtual place in space and time
where the Me intersected with the You,
and neither of us is certain
where or when this What
of a crossing-over is…
or if it really isn’t.
So I guess I won’t fret
the fact these smudged sheets
of imagined existence have come
to this clogging end in
the stream of unconscious consciousness.
The Me has spent most of
his sentient moment alone anyway.
But then aren’t we all just alone
buried beneath our maybes and almosts,
our oughtas and coulda-if-onlys?
Maybe now I’ll forget you, too.
Or, instead of ink,
perhaps I’ll use blood.