21:29

It always finds me
before I think of him,
or of you,
or even of myself, before all else.
Twenty-one
isn’t just the hour,
it’s a wound that ticks,
an echo without a voice,
an unspoken “I loved you”
from another life that ended
with eyes wide open.

When everything felt like a beginning,
when our hands hadn’t yet learned to let go,
when time still tasted of summer.
Twenty-nine
the day I was born,
the day I left myself
to live inside someone else.
It may be coincidence, I say,
but the clock doesn’t lie,
nor do my eyes when I see him again
without even looking.

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