I refuse to be fifty-eight;
sitting in a rickety lawn chair,
painfully counting my regrets.
The taste of possibilities from the past
Is bitter and unwelcome.
‘the summer I should’ve dyed my hair blue-
is regret number twenty two.’
I don’t need should’ve and could’ve-s
the list better not be longer
than my greying hair.
I’d rather not twiddle my toes
In the morning dew and think wistfully
Of me and you and youth and life;
Of our twenties and stale beer and
Trying too hard to fit in with the crowd,
Only to find that we didn’t ever belong.
And so I pour myself into you;
And now I’m hollow.
What I’m trying to say is,
I think I love you-
The questions that remain are few:
Will this confession scare you?
Will my words haunt me at thirty two?
But really, all I’m asking is this-
Do you, too?