As I grow older I hate to look back and see things I thought I buried,
the days I wished I could have stretched out longer and longer to make those moments last,
because the memories have sepia-tones and faded edges,
and splatters of everything else dropped onto its canvas, obscuring details and running over.
The cold air starts to set in and all I want to do is look out the window
at the little children with so long to go and so much to learn,
I hold my hot chocolate and photo books and flip through smiles and bubbles and swings,
the soft, nostalgic sound of classical music wreathes around my head.
I walk outside and smell the frost, the leaves turning gold, the smoke of chimney fires;
it's fresh and relaxing and smells like holidays but my insides drop
because I feel time letting go of my hand and running away from me,
running too fast and too far and leaving me a speck in the background.
Sometimes I'm content to lie in bed and listen to the birds chirp and children laugh,