My Little Old One

All the earthly things…

yeah, they stop to play.

And for four years,

I’ve been breathing

in borrowed beds,

letting night press its weight

on my gentle—

breaking—

soul.

I look at stars.

I watch the moon.

I tell myself

keep breathing,

but nights…

nights walk with me.

Their voices fade

like they’ve got somewhere better to be.

So I let my body die a little

just to wake a soul

that vanished

in a storm I’m still trying to name.

Days walk slow behind me—

like they’re tired too.

My inner voice

weeps underneath these

tired

lungs,

and ghosts pass by

like they own the place.

Yeah—

they scare me.

So I kneel beside my inner child

and whisper,

Hey… don’t weep.

They won’t kill you.

Be strong.

I’m here.

And I wipe his tears

with hands that shake

but still try

to be normal.

Stars steal my soul.

I reach out,

stretching my hands to take it back—

but they slip right through me,

and the moon…

the moon laughs.

Clouds cross my eyes

and in that pulling—

in that tearing—

I grow old.

It’s 2 a.m.

The moon leans in close,

like it finally has something to say.

And in this tired, trembling darkness

it whispers,

Wake up,

my little old one…

look at me.