There is a whisper in the air that seems to yell only at me.
It come in gusts of wind gentle enough to tousle the most well kept hair.
I've know this pitch before.
Even in new places I find myself feeling old.

I haven't lived enough, and there isn't comfort or encouragement in knowing that.
I've held fast to road signs and tree stumps as friends,
kissed their coolness and their groves.
Both these structures can be moved by cars, probably the wind too.

I use to hold hands as if they held me up.
Not a single hand, but a few whose voices prompted closeness.
Most people want promptness.
No one has lived enough, why would you say no?

Sometimes my feet ache when sitting, or when I walk down flights of stairs.
I think I am afraid of falling.
This ache tingles, I both fear it and like it.
At one point hands reassured safety,
like their very structure prevented tumbles.

I've felt this wind before, you see.
Dear girl you were the wind.
From far away you've reached me here and at some point I will tumble over.
I know there aren't hands structured for safety, you know that too.
We just use to pretend we weren't the one knocking one another down.
I never got it until now.

You're hair was never well kept dear Brittany, never well kept at all.
The change in color was artificial, and your constant flux much the same.
I use to see you as an exotic bird with all those colors.
I use to believe in your flight patterns.

The wind does not favor the birds Brittany.
The wind does not favor you.