The Version Not Yet Born

A memory 
taps me 
on the shoulder
before it exists.

I turn.
It blushes, 
apologizes,
and waits nearby
until events catch up.

Other memories 
sit in chairs
waiting for me.

Their faces 
resemble mine
only softened
by choices
I have not made.

Across the room, 
a staircase descends
into tomorrow.

I hear voices there, 
half-familiar,
half-dreamed
calling my name
from a time
that hasn't been built yet.

Inside the room
a future version of me 
keeps a journal.

I open a blank page
that nevertheless
knows my handwriting.