It can be felt but not by hands.
And though it has an outside and within,
it has no weight or skin.
I’ve seen it, but it’s never seen.
And never will its presence be announced
by bells or blinking lights on a machine.
It tells the truth; it lies; it prophesies
but doesn’t make a sound.
Forever lost, it can be found
in flavors, textures, scents, and melodies,
in empty rooms, in photographs, in stones.
It isn’t air, but it is everywhere,
which is to say it isn’t anywhere.
It’s changing constantly but can’t be changed,
is part of me but is apart from me.
It haunts me, so it’s like a ghost,
but it is also like a place I go
like a ghost, invisibly, to visit.
So much for what it’s like and isn’t.
What is it?
Answer: The past.