Thirty has curves the tongue can’t navigate. It echoes over and over in silent, snow-covered gorges. Thirty can hang if you let it take a nap first. It won’t ever have money, but it’s assumed it can pick up the check. Thirty dances along every edge, and doesn’t listen when it’s told not to look down. It smells like various cheap jar candles; scents trailed with subtle “**** its” and the smoke leaves notes of pungent regret. Thirty has an aftertaste of ****** innuendo and likes to whisper filth in a stranger’s ear when no one can hear. It doesn’t intend to put its happiness in any hands but its own (but does it anyway). Thirty has guts but is too modest to show off that armor. It argues more freely and refuses to lay at anyone’s feet. Thirty knows the smell of snow and relishes the scent of fire’s smoke in its hair. It can taste the deep kisses from yesterday and never stops wondering if they’ll come again. Thirty finds a purpose in every day but realizes that tomorrow is not a promise made to anyone. It feels unsettled and shortfallen, but its cup runneth over. It uses what it’s mama gave it to stay warm at night. Thirty is lonely with a full charge. It finds poetry in palm lines and pulls prose from the lies its told. Thirty is the beginning you never knew you needed.