dude.

if i had an attic

if i had an attic

i would find things i'd stored there

years later--

mementos of trips taken,

dresses i'd grown too full for,

ornaments for holidays

and spotted diaries

full of a life

i remembered living

but never lived, pages

crammed

with the testimony

of someone

i remembered being

but wasn't me,

the recalled feel

of cloth that never touched

my skin. the garments' emptiness

within their trunks

would be nothing new

to me, who never

had filled them,

but i would recall

myself, clearly enfolded

in their swirling patterns--and

the trips, cross-country, face

pressed close

to the hot window

of a car i never was in.

and suddenly to realize

that the dust-crammed objects

surrounding me were

never

a part of my life...

and that

the attic

did not exist.

and to cup

my palms

and color them

the color

of fine wine.