Yesterday, I injured myself
and the explanation didn't make sense.

I said, "Well, I was walking..."
and that was the end of the story.

At this age,
my body is a stranger that I
keep meeting over and over again.

The words "I am" are slowly
transforming into "I used to be"

because every year,
the past tense finds a larger house
inside the neighborhood of my
everyday vernacular.

I am slowly realizing that
when the skeleton is new
and the bones are vibrant,

they coerce the mind into
thinking the days will pass,
but the flesh will not.
Youth promises us immortality,
but doesn't have the means to
uphold its end of the bargain.