So this is the day the world frays a yard, the
kid sister runs free, bouncing on her knees yet
another happy birthday.
One a little suddener than the other, both
smell of bath salt and
teenage winter, a little, and
they catch in my chest
like that.
Bottles and balloons cover the corners of my place - I'd
forgotten the deafening decibel of a
Seventeener's mirth.
Breathing in the fresh
paint on the almirah, I watch
a bar of sunshine leap off the marbles
and onto the laptop. Always the cynic, lately,
I look to see if she's broken at the seams.
Hardly.
The yellow is filtered, confused at places, but
this yellow's a rooted girl.
Assured, I throw my head back and
meet her
half-way around the window.
The oldest wave of new, rolling in,
time - or -music - or water
it -
hitsmyface and
lingers.
I hold myself in, for less than
a star-spin and
exhale
a wise calendar.
Happy highs, Kid Year.
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