A Past Me Called Grief

I go fishing with a past me
covered in crisscrossed reddish scars
and toss my line into the still sea.

Ripples spread slow, then grow, a mystery
when they stop; who is the starter?
I peak over at my past me

and see one tear, then two, then three
drop and burn a streaming tattoo, another
scar. She tosses herself into the still sea

balancing between the ripples of mystery
and the starter—herself—the stopper.
I go swimming with my past me

trying to push past the ripples and reach
her hand disappearing into the dark.
I toss myself under the stormy sea

only to be caught by my line leaving
Grief behind. I still wonder
when I go fishing with the present me
the past things I’ve tossed into this sea
(forgive me) called life.

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