It is December,
and I can’t recall the moment time began to run
swift as wind,
quiet as dusk.
Suddenly I’m less present here
than I once was,
suddenly I’m doing better than before
yet sometimes,
I crumble into the worst version of myself.
I ask the world to be gentle,
to hold me softly,
but some days
I still find myself
weeping into my own hands.
There are mornings when I play a happy song,
let the rhythm guide my feet,
and dance my way down the street
while strangers stare
but I don’t mind,
because for a moment
I feel alive.
And there are times
I do not want to exist in the noise of everything,
but more than that
I want to live.
Live slowly,
live beautifully,
live happily,
even if life moves in the blink of an eye.
Tomorrow,
I turn twenty-seven.
It’s a strange feeling,
as it always is
because the younger version of me
never pictured reaching this place,
this age,
this self.
Twenty-six was a wild, uneven ride
beginning with eating grapes under the table for luck,
and ending with me sitting alone at my desk,
the night before everything changed,
thinking about life
and how far I’ve come.
I hope twenty-seven is kind.
I hope it is soft.
I hope I find love
in the world,
in the people I meet,
in the hobbies that hold me.
I hope I greet each morning
with a smile wide enough
to welcome joy back in.
I hope I grow better,
not bitter;
brighter,
not smaller.
And I hope, above all,
that I hold my dreams
as gently as they hold me.
Here’s to twenty-seven
to becoming,
to healing,
to living.
