Every day,
I’ll act like it’s the end.
As if it’s the last time I’ll speak to you.
I’ll write down each thing you say.
I’ll keep every circus ticket in a little book.
I’ll decorate it with your four-petal flowers and bind it with lemon linen strips.
All because I don’t know when our final act begins.
You say it’s silly, how I treasure each of your mother’s trinkets,
but you forget that a few years ago, you were the one telling me to hold on.
Family history is relative.
You can never hear the same rendition,
whether gifted from a wine aunt,
or coaxed from a long-lost father.
Heritage — it truly is a part of us, no matter the manner in which we hide.
The struggle we’ll face is humanity’s oldest adversary.
Time.
A fickle thing.
An ancient evil and yet still the reason your snapdragon petals bloom.
I’d ask you to stop changing, stop aging, stop becoming what I fear,
I’ll act like it’s the end.
As if it’s the last time I’ll speak to you.
I’ll write down each thing you say.
I’ll keep every circus ticket in a little book.
I’ll decorate it with your four-petal flowers and bind it with lemon linen strips.
All because I don’t know when our final act begins.
You say it’s silly, how I treasure each of your mother’s trinkets,
but you forget that a few years ago, you were the one telling me to hold on.
Family history is relative.
You can never hear the same rendition,
whether gifted from a wine aunt,
or coaxed from a long-lost father.
Heritage — it truly is a part of us, no matter the manner in which we hide.
The struggle we’ll face is humanity’s oldest adversary.
Time.
A fickle thing.
An ancient evil and yet still the reason your snapdragon petals bloom.
I’d ask you to stop changing, stop aging, stop becoming what I fear,
