I know they were there; I lived them.
I know they were there, but
I can’t remember them.
Every day I get the same number
I don’t remember all of them.
Where was I? What happened to them?
They’re gone, wasted,
Chunks of my life that slipped away
And I never even noticed their passing.
They’re not even memories;
They’re merely faceless phantoms,
Incapable of eliciting even
A brief flash of recognition from me.
Meanwhile the clock keeps running,
Adding to their number
Even as I bewail how little time I have
Tick, tick, tick…
This phantom menace is real.
It threatens my universe and
No screenwriter can help me.
I’m on my own.