What's Left

Two to three years.

That’s our expiration.

I see the date stamped in the corner.

A ticking  clock, counting down to the end of life vacation.

28, maybe 29.

That’s the oldest I will be.

So much growing up left to do.

So much me that you’ll never see.

I wish I hadn’t asked.

I wish I didn’t know.

Didn’t have this number hanging over head,

A fucked-up mistletoe.

But that is all I know now.

That is all I think.

As I watch you disappear,

Water washing away ink.

We still have time, I hear.

I’ll carry on, push through.

I must, to create memories,

I will carry on for you.

Can I Explain?

If I could write a song, a prayer, a letter

To tell you all my hopes and fears- would it be enough.

Would it be enough to write every thought I have

Just so you would see a glimmer, begin to understand?

I could try. I could write for days.

But it would never quite explain.

The thoughts that haunt me, the nightmares I live,

The baggage I claim.