I am 22;
staring at the mismatched cups
arranged in my kitchen cupboard,
wondering if I'll ever have great big matching sets
of plates, bowls, forks, knives, spoons
and cups

I am 22 and in love,
wondering how I got so lucky
-throwing myself backward,
through time,
to the person standing at my front door
one whole year ago.
Heart-hammering in their chest,
a fresh-cut key in their hand,
still raw with heart-ache:
An empty flat,
and a new life
behind a locked door.

I am old enough now
to recognize the shifting cycles;
to know that every August
is painted rose gold like setting sun
-and to know that February
cannot claw and tear at my ribs
lest I let it.
I am old enough to know
that I can start over -
without fear, without shame.
But young enough to leave bigger things
to chance:
                 love
                 happiness
                 hope
                 promise
these are answers I don't have

And I don't need to.
No,
I am 22,
brewing coffee in chipped cups,
planting kisses on a forehead,
arms, hands, sides, cheeks, lips,
dancing and jumping
when the world lifts around me.
I am 22,
and the world lies open before me.