Then we were what we are not,
Our only vestiges of characters
Who long ago ignored the plot.
Within the high branches of factors,
We’ve continued climbing down,
Never touching a limb we've known,
Except what swiped at our backs.
The undone things one never lacks.
Some like to remember, some forget
Intentionally: “Those I never met.”
If and then! We cannot choose which;
If we don’t unblindingly recall,
Then it just becomes a mental itch —
Then after the present’s fall.
Photograph by the author.