A childhood friend died, so I wrote the following while trying to make sense of it:
I just want to sit here and be wistful,
To stare at the wall, or into the darkness, or at the lines on my hands and think about what once was.
And that’s just it, what once was is now gone, yet I’m still there. I’m six-years-old. I’m eleven. I’m fifteen. I’m twenty. I’m thirty.
I’m there more than I’m here; I’m with you at whatever age you want to be.
Laughing on the playground or contemplating the pointlessness of our twenties.
It’s the same spirit, the same flesh. The years and the wisdom all meld together, and I’m left wondering if we ever knew more than we did at six-years-old.
Savior, I’d do it all again right now. The innocence and the naivety and the false confidence are all still here, aren’t they? So why can’t I be where I want to be?
Where did you go? There’s a timeline with so many marks, but yours doesn’t reach mine. You’re left in those first few years. Filling time and smiling enough to last a generation. And that’s where I want to be.
I just want to sit here and be wistful.