Tale As Old As Time

this box of darkness, mine
i am running from you, father time
catch me if you can at the
turn of a dime,
sleight of hand,
a quarter from my ear.
 
these hands of restlessness, ours
we sit silent in uncomfortable cars
more than anything we wish to stare at the stars
i’ve been told about this feeling of not having
enough hours, not having enough time,
putting your emotions behind bars and
locking the cell with twine.
 
this mind of ambition, mine
my plans are as straightforward as a traffic sign
you wish that you were half as smart as i,
yet when our GPAs are revealed senior year,
you won’t be the only one wishing you had spent fewer
days dreaming about apartments in the east village.
 
these crazy years, ours
someday we’ll look back at these poems,
surrounded by dust in a musty attic or basement,
hidden in a box marked “CHILDHOOD”
and tucked into the farthest corner next to a my little pony
hairbrush.
someday we’ll be brave enough to read these poems again
and someday we may wish we had spoken the truth instead
of just writing lines that seemed poetic in the moment.
someday i’ll hold your hand and you will hold mine and
it will all make sense, and i will be wendy and you will be peter pan
and even though i never got around to finishing the book,
i am almost completely certain
that they live
happily ever after.