Adrift

If you could count the lost moments,

or hold them in your palm like seeds,

what would they sprout?

Mine slip through my fingers like condensation down a glass,

when they hit the table they will wither.

They were not made to last.

In the misty realm of the mind,

time ceases to matter.

There is only now,

and then -

Did and didn't.

Could and should.

If we beat ourselves less for the moments we lost,

and loved a little better what we kept,

would 3 am go unseen?

Would we worry less about the lost?

Or float,

or slip away, adrift in the spaces between?