​

What you don’t have anymore. That’s 

how I learned who you used to be. 

 

You used to be someone 

with no headaches. Pounding, wobbling,

a mind on the loose 

type of headaches that leave you 

paralyzed. 

No way out. 

But your blue light glasses help, 

and they make you look cute. 

 

You used to be someone who danced, 

and not just after a fruity drink or two 

and the right mix of reggaeton beats 

to help your hips along. Your bad knee, 

you say, is likely from years of training, 

of pounding the floor with your feet 

racing to stay on beat. Now when you walk 

up and down the stairs one too many times, 

you complain of it, the throbbing in your left knee, 

the fear you’re getting old, you’re not 

who you used to be. 

 

You used to be someone 

who could balance chemical equations. 

Everyday, twos and fours and 

fours and twos were drawn around compounds

to find the sweet spot. Your brain was more 

than just a container, you could talk about more 

than just your best friend's mom 

having sex with her trainer or how 

that girl from high school got married already. 

 

You used to be someone with a car, 

a used navy blue Volvo to be exact. 

Now, you steer with no direction 

and drive through red lights

without paying attention, but before 

you used to ride with such ease. 

 

You used to be someone who loved 

all the time. 

 

You used to be someone 

who could do all these things. 

 

I’ve learned all you were from all 

you don’t have, and I’m starting to fear 

that you’ll soon have nothing.