You didn’t strip the building to its beams.
You stripped the beams from the building
while the outside stood: the same haircut,
beard, mole, eyes, general weight and height.
The building doesn’t sway as much, but I
find myself missing that romanticized sadness:
nostalgia, knowing that it won’t ever come back.
Or, at least, that it shouldn’t come back,
and I don’t want it back.
I don’t want to be who I was in the place I am now;
I want to be who I am now in the place I was then.
Things would have been different, you know?
And I don’t know why I had to be like I was
for things to turn out this way, but I did.
Not just for my sake, but for others’ too-
paths that divulged from mine
would not have taken such crazy angles
if the impetus were not so strong to leave.
I can only apologize so much for who I was;
at some point it needs to go like Calipari’s UMass.
It happened, but it’s not officially recognized.
Real, but also not consequential. Unlisted. Asterisked.
And that romantic sadness is, instead, a starting point
for joy; new ground to break after turning over the old soil.
In seven years, the ground isn’t the same at all;
in seven years, the body is composed of entirely new cells.
And in seven years, I will be somewhere, doing something,
completely new, remembering the day I wrote this,
looking back and wondering why I had to be who I was
so I could become who I am; the inescapable now
crashing into the inconsequential* past
looking toward the inscrutable future,
inside the same unshaken building.
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