Becoming Nothing

I am vaguely aware that I am becoming nothing
but I think of it not often
I am to busy drinking colors
into the porous strands of my bleached hair
to remind myself that I exist
I speak to the flowers and whisper: I am bright and alive, like you
and just as temporary, too
I am vaguely aware that I am becoming nothing
but I think of it not often
I am to busy pounding my feet
against the dry earth
until my lungs are heaving to remind myself I am here
alive, and still breathing
do you understand
how temporary I am?
do you understand how many others there are
like me, writing little words
about little sadnesses
labeled with things like unique and weird and loner and notliketheothers, even my rareties
are common, a dime
a dozen, I am not saying
that I am worthless, just terribly
replacible.
I am vaguely aware that I am becoming nothing
but I think of it not often
I am too busy drifting through
homely bookstores, like a ghost, like the names
on these covers, with ghastly
gaudy flourescent stickers, $1.99, will this be
my legacy?
a name no one's heard of on a book nobody cares about with a sticker, torn
and half peeling off, if
I am even so lucky?
but listen
I am vaguely aware that I am becoming nothing
but I think of it not often
because soon
I will be ash and then dust, reduced
to a name
but right now, my love
I am bright and alive
as the flowers, I am here
so I will breathe
and remind myself how very strange
it is to exist in the first place,
I will press myself
against all that is beautiful and trembling with life, because
although
I am vaguely aware that I am becoming nothing
I try to think of it
not often
because I am here
now
and that is all
that is
and will ever
be certain