I Would Scream if I Had a Voice

I was old once, as a child.

Now, I cycle back toward infancy.

The world I encounter is wondrous yet cruel.

Melodic yet noisy.

Distant yet piercing.

Full of concrete abstractions and withering certainties.

And still never full even when crowded.

I would scream if I had a voice.

I would cry if I had eyes.

I would smile if I had teeth. Or maybe bite.

With my nose I would inhale the thinnest hint of memory.

And floating there, find a breeze to carry me onward.

There are no arms left to hold me.

There are no soft toys to hold.

The pictures have bled from book pages.

The lullaby of midnight streets.

Flashes of humanity strobe past the window.

I tap time on keys painted by fingerprints.

I tip-toe over the bodies of past lives.

Each with its own terrified expression.

Posed like mannequins.

Hours after closing.

Decades of shelves holding selves I delve in too deeply.

There is no coming up for air.

There's only the skinned knee.

Powdered pink lemonade.

Swingset splinters.

House home.

Welcome.

Place mat at the table.

Forks and knives.

And time.

To eat the ages.