Twenty-eight has toes
butted up against a pitch black promise.
It tastes like mint tea and sucralose,
semi-sweet wine, and runny egg yolks.
It's colonies of bats, strung still in a cave,
bursting into flight whenever provoked.
Twenty-eight has a thousand eyes
looking in every direction
and nimble fingers holding a pocket watch
ticking only in double time.
It understands death
but still can't help but take its days for granted.
Twenty-eight pays rent
but would rather sleep on the beach tonight.
It practices the alchemy that can change
base metal regrets into precious gold vision.
It beats and breathes on the assumption
that it has tomorrows to spend.
Twenty-eight walks a tightrope woven
with expectations and balances only
by the weight of its dreams.
It trudges through thickets and thorns
if only to tell the stories behind its scars.
Terrifyingly beautiful,
that twenty-eight.