It Never Truly Is

I never thought I'd long for the sting

of stale cigarettes in my nostrils each night,

as I watch the shadows of trees haunt my bedroom walls.

Or the taste of old wine prickling my mouth and burning

my throat as if it knew I was too young to lie.

I never thought I'd revel to tread down creaky sunrise stairs,

awash with old anxieties and the idea that somewhere,

under mossy earth, you'd stir a final time. To that, I wouldn't be opposed.

I never thought my hands would remember what my mind could not,

the ridges of your identity, and eternity in your rings.

I never thought my heart would melt with glacial pace

instead of break all at once, though I would have preferred

the latter.