Today is December the second,
of the year twenty twenty-three
a saturday, of all days
Not unlike the fifty others like itself
If I as much as close my eyes
and open them after a blink
I cannot tell it apart
from December the third or fifth
or any day of any month
of any year
that's gone by
unlived
Passing from one end of eternity
to the other, if there is one,
it is passing by
my perception and experience
Unless I break my leg or heart
or have something misplaced
or encounter something out of place,
this day with its stack of inimitable moments
will just pass off and away
unmattered, unlived
A day from this or a week ago
I will not recall more than
the shape of the cloud
making faces at me
this moment
Yet, it is not short on detail
or wanting in richness
than any other
of the limited days I get to live,
unrealised,
this could be the only left
and I'll be the memory
to someone who cares
to remember
this day, the second day
of the last month,
of the twenty-third year
of the twenty-first century
a saturday of all days,
a day when I died
even though
I was not
living it
until then
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