My sister & I were born in winter
in the dead month that rings in the
Is it true?
did I let the youth slip between my fingers
like water through porous stone?
I can’t count the memories like I can years,
can’t justify all the misplaced months
stammering in and out of idleness.
I could go back,
content in following one clear path.
Again, as a second calling.
But that isn’t life.
That wasn’t the hand I was dealt,
or even the game that I gambled myself into.
We have only one chance, ultimately,
and though the faces that weave into that web are kind ones…
I’m still left with the “what ifs…”
They glow like the inside of a curtained window,
offering the possibility of warmth,
but never enough to truly feel.
I’m 25 today
When did I spring up out of adolescence?
When did that line form between my eyebrows,
When did those dreams become displaced
pangs of quiet nothingness
Too cold to flicker into realities,
too poignet to let go of altogether.