Old Shoes

I need to step back,
for I cannot breathe
or hear the wind
rustle through the trees. 
Memory's caught
on a branch somewhere,
and I lost my sleeve
miles and miles back there. 
My shoes are worn,
my head is hot
with all of those feelings
I lived and forgot. 
Nothing's familiar,
yet nothing's new;
no one has lied,
yet little rings true. 
I'm alive,
I can tell,
but I'm no longer certain
at what point memory
drew the curtain. 
So what did I leave
and what did I lose --
How long have I worn
these ratty old shoes?