I stand in front of you with a bouquet of brittle bones
that crumble in the grip of my trembling hands
and fall like grains of sand in an hour glass
One by one, they grace the floor by my feet
until I drown in all the broken yesterdays, sullen todays, and disheartening tomorrows--the love we once thought we knew

From the debris, I emerge naked and pure
like the Phoenix rises from its own ash;
creation from cremation
I look down to see those sad bones of mine
to find a hand in the midst, grasping for my own
Is it you or the previous version of myself--does it matter?