it's all a fog

When I awoke,
This morning,
On the table,
Next to the bed,
On a bit of paper,
Your name,
Written in blue,
From a pen,
No longer there.

Scribbled,
In my handwriting,
But blurred,
Unclear,
As was my mind,
Seeing it there.

When had I written it?

Had I awaken in the night,
And scawled it there?

Or last night before bed,
After having met you,
In a bar,
After work,
And not wanting to forget,
Who you were?

Had we come back here?

So much lost in fog.

Or was it,
Maybe,
The night before last?
Or the night before that?

Had I ever actually met.
The you,
Of that name?

Or were you a dream,
A name imagined,
Now lost in the mists,
Of last night’s,
(Many last nights’),
Fading dreams?

Were you the blond?
But which blond?
I seem to remember so many,
And yet,
Not one clearly.

Or, maybe,
The titan haired minx,
That marked my back,
That night —
How long ago?

Maybe it was you,
With short hair,
Black,
Pixy cut,
Reflecting,
The pixy you were,
In bed,
And out?

No,
I think,
The one with the pixy cut,
Was in the cookie store,
And at home,
Only in my dreams.

Was it you,
Who slapped me,
Silly,
(With good reason),
After what I had said,
That doesn’t seem,
So funny now?

Would I remember,
More clearly,
You,
Who ever you are,
Or were,
If it was your name,
Scrawled there,
And found this morning?

And what of the spilled water,
Seeping across the table,
Moistening the paper,
Running the ink,
Blurring even that,
Hint of what was.

Was it water,
From melted ice,
From last night’s,
Night cap?

So little clear,
This morning,
So much in fog,
As was yesterday,
So much blurred,
And,
Yesterday’s yesterday,
Hidden in mist.

The mornings,
They flow together,
Indistinguishable.

Have I lost my mind?

Or,
Maybe,
Finally,
My soul?