we can pretend that breathing is easy,
that each moment doesn’t slip away
that we don’t regret the unsaid things.
that age sweeps through us and
builds and blossoms,
but the blooming season
is too late for us all.
we can pretend this ride
isn’t fast and unexpected
we can pretend that life takes lifetimes
and each moment
is so full and large
we’d be content this being our last one.
and maybe i’m wrong,
i always am—
but, maybe we can appreciate each moment
a little bit more too.
after all,
it’s the last one of its kind
we’re ever going to get.
