i know that i am on the cusp of something
the graceful lip
and with each passing second
i am leaving the person i once was

my fingertips dwell on hers,
clammy- i liked her very much
and i try to shake my views
of myself as a battered frisk upon
the roiling waves of circumstance
beneath my quaking keel

i'm behind glass,
enclosed with condensation
with each of my ragged inhalations
and with chipped nails
i sketch pictures of who it is
that i want to be
but, still, i cannot quite make her out-
the lines are blurred and
my breath erases her
i am unable to see the future clearly
if i truly live