a portrait of self?

it’s not some photo pinned in a frame
that hangs by the door slowly collecting dust.
it’s not found in memory from last we spoke
when you stormed out on us.

and not a face in the mirror
staring blankly
back at me.

lately it feels like swimming through
fog where all human senses are dulled.
striving to plumb subterranean motives
in the darkest depths of one.

despite my searching it forever
eludes me piece by
subtle piece.