Memento

I give a piece quite near away,

then another, one and two to three

and say good-bye with some dismay.

We might have been twins, I born in May

and she of the blistered January

colored like the vibrant cray-

on, clinging on to toys of the day,

as mine become that of history.

“Again,” she cries and I obey.

I hold the script of the gone by matinee:

before I ever found a scar, a yawn, a he;

past the years I’ve spun to macramé.

Soon I must go, and she will stay,

dwelling under the apple tree,

never to wander blind in first foray.

Sentient air, lead her not to disarray.

She flails. I walk. We are matching memory.

I have things she never will, a little say.

So I pull away and board the last ferry.