I'm not old.
I'm immature.
Senseless and careless.
Full of faults that I constantly trip over.
And devoid of cracks that aren't hairline fractures.
I'm young.
Afraid to live.
And afraid to die without growing out of the youth I now own.
I am young and old.
Fragile with uncertainty.
Yet strong with determination.
Or not really.
Maybe foolish with hope and too doe eyed to see it.
Maybe too young to understand that life isn't a game actually meant to be won
but one which is endured.
Like tomatoes ripened in the sun.
Maybe I'm not old enough to be bottled and sold.
Maybe I'm fresh fruit.
Picked from a vine and placed in a barrel.
Aged slowly and sweetly.
Future red wine.
But for now.
Young grapes.
In a process.
Unripened.

This is a dedication
To the people who have never been met
And to those who will never meet
An easy night
When wine tastes best on parched lips
And the cool air of night is the prelude to warmth
A kiss so brutal
And yet more tender than the morning after
Fighting the stars for their predictions
Of endless dark
And love that will never be met
Life that has not one chance
To leave its’ aching bruise
Its’ chameleon colored mark