Turning 25

Maybe the year is ending and all there is left to do
is leave our names behind.

No one will find them anyway.

Except for the paper boy
who looks longingly for a signature –
a moment of acknowledgement as for a mailman,
that some day he too existed,
his face resting at our doorstep.

But he’s already gone,
a lightning bug,
the first sight of something falling.

Softly perhaps, just a drizzle,
but falling still,
and is it not gravity that makes it harder to believe
that we too fell,
and is it not gravity that makes it harder to believe
that we too were gone.

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