THE LOST DAY

Pick up the remote, can't remember what to do.
Like it's the first time I've done it, it's something new.
Start to feel clammy, scared, getting shorter of breath.
Chest starts to constrict I'm alone, staring at death.
What's on the screen looks like nothing I've seen before.
How long? Could be seconds, minutes, hours, maybe more.
I listen but don't hear, look but don't see.
Nothing familiar to this version of me.
I don't get lunch, make phone calls I don't remember,
don't know if we're in June, August or September.
I tell myself I won't let you know what's happened.
Should have known this day couldn't be scripted or planned.
The next day I come clean, feeling slightly heady
only to find I've told you three times already.
And with that my spirit temporarily dims 
as we head down the path littered with acronyms.