The end of me

Because of you I’ve become
a filter of gray metal suspicions.
Was yesterday’s death simply
a precursor to rebirth tomorrow?
The angles don’t match without
a prism and the afternoon sun,
but I’ve grown blind to all
beauty not within reach;
someday I’ll dust off these
forgotten boxes and rusted tins
and distribute the hardened candy
as if it meant so much more
than the memory of something
sweet once but now lost,
and in the growing shadows
I’ll forfeit all traces of youth
so that you can become what
I never was but always lost.


About today’s poem:
Either you both have to stop growing so fast or I have to pretend to be older. I’m not yet ready for tomorrow to become today.


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