My life is a page.
The further I travel, the more crowded it becomes
With foreign smells and ideas and lives.
Each experience leaves the smallest dots on the bold red lines.
The paper grows dingy; the ink blurs,
And the edges grow torn and wet.
I’m left carrying it in my breast pocket
And once in a while, I’ll pull it out
To read the wrinkled sheet.
But as I march on, I find it harder to decipher.
The scrawl is smaller and tighter,
And black figures overlap heavily,
Weighing the paper down with words.
I can’t remember what was previously written.
And as the paper gets heavier, it pulls down my pocket,
Pulling, pulling towards the ground,
With age and experience and understanding heavy and thick.
Until finally, it lays with me to rest.