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You ever have one of those weeks where you just feel like writing poems?

Well apparently I do.

Who would’ve thought?

Anyway, Behold:

Crick. Crack. 

Bones like stone. Stone-like bones.

I am weathered. Shaped and carved by the river of time.

How many seconds left? Not minutes. Not hours. And certainly not days.

But that matters not, young one. For you, I have all the time in the world.

For you are my world.

Look at you, lying in your crib. Eyes wide. Mouth agape. Amazed by the sheer wonder that is life.

You laugh. You cry.

What do you know of laughter?

What do you know of tears?

You have not yet lived, as I have.

You have not danced with the dawn, held by your lover.

You have not wept, as he left you for another…

Ah, but you have my eyes, just like your mother.

I held her, once long ago. I would hold you too, but these arms cannot support you.

I cannot be there when you fall, and you will.

I cannot be there when you soar, and you will.

You have seconds. You have minutes. You have hours. A whole lifetime awaits you. Days of sadness. Months of hardships.

Years of laughter.

But I will not be there to see them.

I have seconds. You have many more.

To you, I will be nothing more than a memory, a set of old eyes in an old face.

Perhaps not even that?

Less than a thought. Less than a memory.

A phrase? A word? A sound? 

What will be left of me in you? 

I am not greedy, so I will ask only for two.

Two syllables. Two sounds. 


Thank you for listening.