Pastlife

As I stare into my self-abyss
I used to wonder what I ought to say.
But now I don't. I like it more this way,
And willingly could give the past a miss
Were it not that there is still some bliss
In what and how I did things yesterday.
So I remember, though I do not stray
Into that past nor long to taste the kiss
Of other lips. No, rather I recall
How it was then, comparing it to now,
And wondering in glad confusion how
It changed to this, against which others pall.
There's joy left to remember, but what's here
Is greater than all recollected cheer.