When Past is Present

I've perfected the clumsy tourniquet,
planted grief and hoped it sprouted wings,
neglected to count the rings in my eyes to see
how long I've been lying,
how small the leap between distraction
or disguise.

I've lost count of who to consider lover,
on which nightstand I misplaced my blame,
or what the question even was in the first place.
All I trust is what I feel; all I know is I can't
always trust what I feel.

But then the coffee of echoed words
spills onto the street in front of me,
spells out reason in the rain,
breathes a smoky full
into muddy hollow,
and reminds me of all there is to release
and reclaim.