So this has been my
life, so far and my experience
of time: a heaping on
of sorrows, accumulation
of loss, an ocean
of a concept but also only a
mental construct, a kind of
con: that false 29th day
February phantom limb, and
weeks and months stringing out
before you like beads on a string
to the horizon until they are gone.
Elastically expanding
one moment - those longest
days of school before
summer vacation - then snapping
back to brief, creating that
wound in your heart when
you have to leave him.
At 37 you think you still have plenty
of it, you think it’s still on your side.
At 47 you feel it slip-sliding away,
as more hairs become gray and you can
no longer keep those plump and shiny
cheeks, your face turning to desiccated old
apple doll, no matter how much collagen and
water you drink or regimented 7-8 hours of sleep.
Before you know it, you’ve missed
that glorious Goldilocks moment - somewhere
between 25 and 40 - when you are no longer
“too young” but not yet “too old” - “No one told
you when to run/you missed the starting gun”
~ Pink Floyd somehow knew all about it
I feel it burning away, a little bit more
every single day, until all is lost
in the burning.
