Forgotten Things

I try to imagine how it might feel being a broken wine glass trying to remember whether it held a red or a white when it was whole or to be a puff of smoke that disappears in seconds, existing for only a few moments, wondering whose lips it had passed through or to be a dream that never ends, to go places without moving, voyaging in my body, feeling just how filled with emptiness one can really be I try to imagine Future's jealousy of a Present that never ends, of a hope to touch, just once, the waters of the sea, to think imaginatively about the sun or moon or stars. I feel bad for forgotten things. Remembering hurts more.