Birthdays,
rolling in faster every year,
dragging their long shadows behind them.
Something terrible
always circles back.
The innocence fled early,
left me sleepless
in a cold room of memories turned nightmares.
I still hear younger laughter
through half-lit hallways, like ghosts through another house—
sugar-stained fingers, small hands,
bright candles,
warm lights in winter windows.
The world untouched by dread.
Time bruises in unknowing ways.
Memory decays softly.
Now I grow flowers alone,
watering them with versions of myself I no longer recognize.
No candles to burn.
Only silence waiting in the walls.
Getting older
feels like watching winter
move into the bones.
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