Short and Long Term

My memory is completely failing me.
An equal blur for everything.
Save a few syncopated staccato moments.
Juxtaposed clarity in the void.
Some vivid second of joy,
Or a clever turn of phrase.
A time I was caught in a lie by someone I respected.
Most common: times of pain.
These few things make up what I know of the person I was.
Something like a patchwork foundation.
This thatch-work walkway from missed menstruation to man.
What failing memory offers me,
Are enough things to barely count on two hands.
And those I often need strain to replay.
Every time I am in a new moment of triumph,
Or terror,
I wonder if I will get to keep it.
"Will I hold on to this?"
"Will it make the cut?"

Likely it will fade like those I've come to forget I'd ever known.