Turns out

Under a Danish grey sky
on the other side of the world,
I watched the lives I’ve walked
sit and rest with me in the quiet I carved.
Realized I’ve lived more
than any feline has on reserve –
reached an age where decades
have burrowed and bloomed.
Love stories begun and ended,
children born and grown,
graduate degrees and
career changes harnessed,
homes built up and emptied,
miles upon miles traveled,
both inward and mapped.

So many beautiful em-dashes
and ellipses of nostalgia
I wish I could hang onto, but
have forgotten,
until a silent pause nudges.

Turns out,
I am not young anymore.
I pondered how much I’ve seen:
words penned to paper,
moments survived through held breath,
gritted teeth.
People I’ve loved with the
whole weight of my blood.
Bits of the world I’ve despised
through the fiery fury of paralysis,
not knowing how to help.
All that I have birthed into existence.
This new, better edited, refined,
real version of myself.

And, the stories I’ve buried forever
that you’ll never read about.

Turns out,
I am still me.
I dance in the same painted skin,
even if more settled and lined.
Thinned like a sheet, but twirling.
Body smaller, slower.
But still running to feel
sweat drip from my forehead to lips.
Heart, almost too big to carry.
Mind, a goldmine
you should want to excavate.

Turns out,
people still look
as they eat on the street.
Raise a brow in curiosity.
Don’t bother wiping
their mouths.
I look them all dead in the eye now,
with love – age has gifted me that.
I go home alone, content to the bone.

Turns out,
your fingers on my hips
are the ones that build
the only fire that doesn’t feel
like a cremation,
and I have more lives
waiting for me.