eighteen going on forty-five

dearest angel,

our eyes met, somewhere on a street corner. Blue and green met the same wavelength; and I could see hearts rise spontaneously from cracked concrete, rising above the white clouds, where Jesus smiled brighter than the pearl gates.

i'm an old soul, spontaneous and sad, in love with stagelights and braced staves, but unable to carry a tune in the bucket, even though the well overflowed with quarter notes. my ears and feet resonate with old tunes, preferring Rodgers and Hammerstein to Rihanna and Rap; life is too short to hate the world and slander Fate.

my soul is a window, shattered by an errant baseball thrown by miscreant children who simply wanted a game. Baptized by the chronos shock wave that bled the Columbine flower; I celebrate two birthdays, with August brighter than October.

i'm young and learning, but aged and weary; eyes fixed on heaven but learning to love life. I'm an foundational paradox, beauty and ugliness playing tug-of-war over my very flesh and soul.

but none of that matters anymore.