my fingers trace the second hand on the clock
pushing it anti-clockwise
hoping the illusion of turning back time
would be real.
if i could go back in time to mourn
what i had gotten in the present
the ache in my heart would be
the ache in my back.
my bed is the outer space of my body,
being the only vessel that
allows me to run from pain,
from my many dreams.
it suffocates me with thoughts
that i can never chase those fickle dreams
of being fit.
my oxygen rests in the atmosphere of
my audience of stars
yet i still drift,
because the atmosphere of my stars
brings back the pain in my back.
my mother jokingly tells me
i'm an old man.
i wonder if she said it
so that she wouldn't feel so old?
i wonder if i AM an old man, drifting
along with depression, dimming
my audience of stars?
the cluster of stars, then
gaze at other twenty one year olds
who land on their own stars
with clear paths and dreams,
instead of drifting like i did.
like a switch,
they light up a