When I was younger
I didn’t wait for anything.
Delayed gratification might
as well have been Latin.
If it was in front of me
I took it.
No hesitation.
No thinking it through.
Same with everything—
work, desire, words.
Grab it fast
before it walks off on you.
In the afternoon sun one day
I bent a blonde over in
the kitchen
before she headed out for work.
I moved like that for years.
All instinct.
No pause button.
Just motion and aftermath.
Chaos in a green and red swirl.
I used to write like that too.
Spitting pages out like they
owed me something.
Rushing the line
just to get to the next one.
If it didn’t come easily, I didn’t stretch.
Anger and sloth became me.
No patience for silence.
No patience for anything that didn’t
give something back right away.
Now I sit longer.
I let things bask in front of me.
See what they turn into
before I touch them.
Some days I don’t even reach.
Just watch it pass.
That used to feel like losing.
Now it feels like lived in wisdom.
Funny thing is—
you don’t end up with less.
You just stop bleeding for it.
I still want too much.
That hasn’t changed.
I just don’t take it all
in the same rush anymore.
And grace has given me more
than I could have engineered.