Blink.

Blink.
You’re seven years old
your hands’ best friends
are earth and bugs.
Blink.
You’re thirteen, dressed in blue
on your first day of highschool
and maybe he likes you, too.
Blink.
You’re sixteen, dressed in nothing
lost to the sound of music in the air
to all but the feeling of
his fingers through your hair.
Blink.
You’re eighteen, and still lost
wine doesn’t taste as sweet
as you thought.
Blink.
You’re twenty-five,
and your smoky lungs are breathing
but you’re finally realizing
that doesn’t mean you’re alive.
Blink.
You’re twenty-seven and you
are still lost in music and his
hands and the smoke and the
buzzing of bitter wine and drugs;
it took twenty-seven years, but you have learned
your bodies best friends are earth - and bugs.