Thursday, May 14, 2015

Past Imperfect

Am I my past, and must I be defined
By things a different me has done? The sky
Is ever-changing with clouds that wind
In whirls that come together just to cry.

No atom in me is the same as those
In the old me that met you. The old me
Is doubly gone -- this me is he who knows
A love that me could never know nor see.

Yet you insist that I, whose love has grown
For you, remain the same in essence. Stories
From past selves are but myths, and all have shown
A character in all his pains and glories.

The thing to know is, when it comes to you
My every thought and action will be true.

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