"Later".
To be beautiful, and powerful, enough
for someone to want to break me up into syndicated ripples.
Later, I'll try to rise from these dead.
How much would this body have had to be otherwise,
in order not to be mine?
For this world, not to exist?
When would that difference have had to begin?
The old lady invited me to her soiree.
Maybe I was even older than she was.
I was mysterious at any rate.
A rarity, until the room filled up--
then not.
When she handed out chocolates, she forgot me.
I gesticulated as if it were funny,
and she gave me two pink creams.
Me-- as if I would have ever wanted these.
They drive me out to sea.
Secretly, I am still the mysterious.
I speak in splashes.
Later, I have the lonely dream.