Age Is a Number

Mocked from day one
as they scoffed insults
from scolding tongues
‘What do you know?
‘You’re only young!’
I don’t think they comprehend
the feeling I get
when I hold your hand.

Like ying & yang,
palms outstretched, I latched on
to all the wrong souls
until I grasped onto something
I couldn't let go.
‘But you’re nineteen!’
Yes. I've spent nineteen years alone.
Which is lucky, because some
don’t meet people until
their time’s been and gone.

I don’t think they appreciate
the shape of your spine as you stretch
getting out of bed,
after a night of breathing dreams
into my ear with the sweetest
breath I’ve ever felt,
or the way your arm fits
like a jigsaw piece
into the curve of my side,
or how I’m pulled and pushed
by the tide, and thrown
against the cliff
when you’re not around
because I miss the sound
of your laugh – and I’d give anything
to have you back when you go.
But even then I’m not alone.
Your words echo like wolves
howling through caves,
A feeling so raw I’ll take it to the grave.

Tomorrow, I’ll see you pulling
stupid faces with your mates
but everything’s okay
because you’ll come home
and mention how the eyelash caught
on the crest of my cheek
or the mascara that’s run is endearing to me.

Before we know it, we’ll be old,
laughing at the people who pushed us around –
who suffered life loveless
who’re now in the ground – cold,
and filled their last breath with sorrow.
So, with a smug smile I say this,
Age is a number that love doesn’t know.