I know not which month the what if game began

The air was warm when it reached finality

Backward reaching I missed a certain bit of awareness

My young mind unable to rest the ball rolling

A handful of moments frozen within me

A simple monument to bread unbaked

Extending deep into the pockets of memory

Lint in unwashed jeans turning between my fingers

Wishes blown into the wind form monsters

I sit as wet morning sand on the beach

Past and future all out to sea