Do you ever miss an old Self?

One you come across 

when dusting off an old shelf—

 

She’s kind of cold 

and soaked in smut,

but oh what a sight to behold!  

 

You can’t quite hold her in your hands 

like before—she’s jellyfish 

drooling through your fingers

 

through the floorboards

down the street 

back into the sea—

 

But she still lingers like late autumn air, 

crisp, before the first snow—

so I try to hold her in my breath, instead:

 

She burns like capsaicin in my nostrils!

but fades out in just a moment, 

and now scents and my senses

 

become all bland again,

back where I began.

Dully moving on to the next shelf,

 

I wonder if I’ll ever miss 

this present Self—the one I seem 

to hate so much right now.