If I could hold my life
in my arms,
the wind would blow through
my fingers.
I would feel its draft on my face,
I would hear a surf without voices
and I would stifle a cry.
I feel the weight of nothing!
There are no albums or books.
My heart has no air to breathe!
No one touches me.
I am not a story or a song.
If I sold my life at a yard sale,
people would ask,
what are you holding?
And turn away as if I were mad
to pretend I had anything to sell.
And I would mourn a life
no one could see, taste or smell.
That it passes away
with nothing to show for it.
I would drop my arms,
and whatever was my life
would continue
to be somewhere in front of me,
invisible
and huge,
maybe too big for the universe to catch.