i think of when i was just six years old

sitting on the backseat of a long car ride

i was staring at my reflection against the rain-stained windows

attempting to peer past the seemingly childish eyes

don’t you remember when you’d watch your index finger move

to touch the fogged up glass, cold and slippery?

drawing abstract lines aimlessly leading to nowhere

in wonderment of all your inner soliloquies

to think and to feel and to solely exist

in that instant i was imagining the world at six

because this thing called living felt anomalous and ordinary

but over the years had to succumb to oblivion and insensibility

though that didn’t last because i had to ask, “why?“

curiosity overtook in between all the lies

but what do i know? i’m scarcely twenty four

with everything i have i will always want more

and years from now i see myself looking back

tormenting all the parts of me that i know i still lack

seeing the naiveté in these plain thoughts and words

reflecting on whatever it is that i will have later learned

envy grows in my older self

to have had the dreams i still hold on to and rope

around in my mind as effervescent illusions

either turn to reality or become lost hope

but is reality not a deception to our fantasies?

love being one of those things still desired?

despite its power to bring calamity

or is it a feeling or a choice that is eventually acquired?

was old love found past the childish eyes?

or was it only in the innocence simply of unknowing?

no — old love is entwined in sad weather and gray sky

which may all be a part of what we call growing