i want to know why, apparently, i am ephemeral. it seems that i am not the penny in your pocket, the one you covet and horde, the one you shine and wish on the one you would never throw into the fountain- i am not that. i am the hole in your pocket, the one your finger is always punched through. i am the worried-out patch in your sock the one you miss at the thought of darning the space you feel as place the absence you would miss- i am this