One would think
awareness of the moment you lost it all
doesn’t just come
while sitting in a thick cloud of illusion that suddenly clears.
Is it not usually hindsight whose job it is
to spotlight err and laugh,
pleased with herself with a raise of her martini, pinky in the air?
Too dramatic of course,
to consider the littlest of things actually are the beginning.
Pebbles and slippage of sand always come
before the landslide and breaking glass at the end,
and if we’re always looking up at that damn mountain,
waiting for it to fall on our heads,
“Well, self fulfilling prophecy!” they said.
And what of the ever present sense of dread?
Just a twitch, a fast heartbeat away from becoming
the truth
about us.
Before we know it,
it’s just a story we tell
about how we lost our way.


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