Five Without Her

How old am I turning?

Well, that depends which answer you prefer

Do you want to know how long I’ve been alive,

or how long I’ve been alive without her?

For, there are different ways I can tell you,

there’s a before and there’s an after.

And I think maybe I’ll have a party this time,

it’s just that I can barely stand the chatter.

Twenty-six now? or am I only becoming five?

of the years that ache with candor and spite,

The years that continue passing

and the permanence they contrive

Another year stronger,

resilient but not harrowed.

I get dizzy looking ahead,

my vision becomes narrowed

I know twenty-six, but five without her

at the end of the day, it’s neither answer I prefer.

And it does mean a lot when they bring out candles on a cake,

“I’m crying tears of joy!” I appease, for the purpose of hiding the ache.

The ache of turning twenty-six,

yet, at the same time, still only five.

I’m a toddler in the back seat of an empty car

that someone left in drive.

Could I go back to four? Maybe three, two, or one?

For my birthday could I have one day to reverse the setting sun?

If I could go back to zero, she’d celebrate with me

She wouldn’t be sitting behind a marble plaque, resting under the trees.

How old am I turning?

too old to count,

It’s these years passing without her

that age me an untraceable amount.

The work is cut out, find something to celebrate

I only waste time if I wait until I’m twenty-seven, twenty-eight.

I’m turning twenty-six, and five without her,

It’s the first time ever, that five has looked so mature.

I’m not four anymore,

I’m supposed to be wiser.

I’m supposed to be at the point where they ask if I’m okay,

and I don’t make myself a liar.

Because I’ll be twenty-six now,

and five without her.

They’ll bring a cake with candles

I’ll put on a smile and a skirt.