There you are again.
I found you as always,
sitting alone,
thinking precious thoughts
behind precious eyes.
I know you see this as a time
of preparation, but I cannot
help but wish you saw it
as a time of life
before the hourglass runs out.
So you drink your tea,
and read your books,
and funnel the world in through your vision,
hoping to save up enough light
to last you in the long dark ahead.
Do you count your minutes?
Are the remaining ones like presents
you open with ever-increasing
jubilation, meeting each with
a kiss of gratitude?
Do they seem better as you go along?
You swear
sometimes you hear the walls talking.
Everything seems wiser than you now,
you are the one little girl who wasn't invited
to the party, and the other children
whisper so cruelly. They love tormenting you.
But until the big day, you are their equal--
true, they will stand to see
another year, but you are not envious.
After all, you say,
better to leave while they still
want you to stay. Best to not
wear our your welcome.
You watch the mountains.
Your hair falls against your cheek;
somehow you have almost
made your journey, while I
studied the traveler. One last time
I wish I knew the unsaid poetry
behind precious eyes.