Friday, January 29, 2010

I just realized that my blogger's still set to IST. An odd comfort.

Guilt

Since we're not young, weeks have to do time
for years of missing each other. Yet only this odd warp
in time tells me we're not young.
Did I ever walk the morning streets at twenty,
my limbs streaming with purer joy?
did I lean from my window over the city
listening for the future
as I listen with nerves tuned for your ring?
And you, you move towards me with the same tempo.
Your eyes are everlasting, the green spark
of the blue-eyed grass of early summer
the green-blue wild cress washed by the spring.
At twenty, yes: we thought we'd live forever.
At forty-five, I want to know even our limits.
I touch you knowing we weren't born tomorrow,
and somehow, each of us will help the other live,
and somehow, each of us must help the other die.

-- Adrienne Rich

I want to talk about death, but I'm superstitious.

With age and responsibility comes the burden of knowing exactly when you aren't doing your bit. Suddenly I'm scared.