A dry flower on the other side of the road moving as if it had somewhere to be keeping pace with me,
as if we were both being taken somewhere neither of us chose.
Bright pink, solid and together.
It looked like what a flower becomes after.
But it was still living as one!
Flower.
Wind.
I did not choose the wind that found me, nor was never given the grace to try.
And Time does not move the same for everyone.
27 you see.
87 in me.
It stopped being about years.
It is about what the sky did to earth.
I am eighty-seven and it is not my fault.
Sky and earth, giving birth to a monster, and we were the ones getting struck by lightning,
But never the subject of the story, we catch nobody's attention.
Does a flower die when it falls, or does it arrive somewhere else without being asked?
Deja vu.
Dead flowers everywhere.
And every flower is a body.
Lots of bodies.
Emotions.
Fraction.
Forget about it Forget.
Forget it, you survived.
You escaped from that "flowers graveyard".
Tried new things and knew more.
Does wine spoil when it grows old or become something heavier?
Something that burns slower in the throat and leaves a different kind of trace?
Is a planet ugly when it starts to decay and small things grow over it quietly, without permission?
Or is that just another phase of continuing?
Deja vu.
Dead.
Graveyard.
Flowers everywhere and butterflies flying above graves.
Butterflies are fortunate.
They live their whole life inside light.
They never stay long enough to watch it change.
They die before the air grows thick and heavy, before the sky lowers itself and raises its voice,
Before breathing becomes something you notice.
They leave early.
Wings still clean.
But us? We stay.
We watch the light change color.
We watch the sky fighting with earth.
We learn that breathing is not automatic.
And then we are left to carry the weight of having seen it all,
While the ones who never did pay to look younger, smooth out the evidence,
Hold a clock that has not broken yet and call that "HoPe".
While we grow old like dust that keeps returning no matter how many times you wipe it away.
I might or might not be the dry flower on the other side of the road!!
I sometimes move, not by choice.
I sometimes make noise because silence would mean I agreed to die!?
Wind pushes.
I follow.
People pass.
They do not hear it.
Or they hear and decide it is nothing important.
But I hear every small collision with the ground,
Every reminder that something once alive can keep moving too, long after it should have stopped.
Still here.
Still making sound.
Living a century inside a body that insists it is only twenty-seven.
So what?
I'm old!