Age is 20,
Too much he thinks,
One heartbreak,
Whenever he touches it still stings.
Three real lovers,
And one make-out session in a back of a car,
A couple in his room,
One over the Nile,
And the last was at the bar.
Two favorite poets,
One Jewish sage
With songs verses so rare,
One Arab bard
From a hot deserts bare.
When he was 16,
He had a goal of becoming a successful engineer,
And the other is to make a million or two.
At 20, he's got only a keyboard and his energy is few.
Smokes to numb the daily sting,
Drinks to feel what life might bring.
He's full of love, it aches his heart,
Two real friends, a few colleagues,
And a guardian angel playing the harp.
Three sisters but he went away for college,
A father he can't stand up to,
Because he hasn't built the courage.
Twenty years still he knows nothing
Twenty years but he’s still scared
and doesn’t know what’s coming.

Well, what my age is?

I have many and waver --


Which one shall I choose?

Waves in handmade glass
in old peeling wooden panes —
Ripples on the pond.

My birthday song
was sung by the birds this morn,
they greeted me
with kisses from Heaven.
Their gleeful singalong
bounced me out of bed headlong,
a spring in my step,
despite being age-strong,
I look forward
to celebrations all day long.
Grateful to be alive,
to witness this very day!

one year on

she
smokes a joint
after *** (the
music fading like
clouds)
he says
he loves her even when
she's wrong
(his voice a
soft thread of
certainty)

he would
defend her
(unlike
those others)
against the fire of
her parents'
words
and with her could
debate
the stars,
the sky,
the silent spin
of worlds
unseen

he keeps her
like a queen (but
only because they
build
their kingdom together,
brick by
brick
in the quiet
hours)

their late-night
conversations
map the
unspoken terrain
of what love means
when the clock
whispers secrets

she waits
(always,
always) for him—
stitching
fragments of his
family into something
whole
like she pieces
herself together,
tender hands
wrapping around
his sharp edges

she speaks
to the wolf in him
that rises
with the lunar pull of
his control,
her words
the tether,
the calm,
the stilling wind.

Lost in feelings like a child who has lost their mother’s hand in a clothing store. What can I cling to as life begins to wear me down? I feel out of place in this room, surrounded by a sea of people who adorn themselves in ways that garner admiration from others. My neck is slick with sweat; my eyes heavy with tears, burdened by the smoke swirling in my chest like a traveller stuck in customs.

The ultimate destination is, of course, my head, where thinking of myself in a future tense is so heavy on my brain. My lips start to tense, speaking of the past with a few old friends – I’ve aged too well, that those grappling with the youthful insecurities I once faced believe we’re age mates.

Still what’s looking for a mate: a joint occupant; though my joints ache a bit too much. A soulmate in the wake of these days, but what good is finding one if you don’t really have a soul. So lost in myself.

Time: with its relentless grasp tightening around me, like the
unyielding force of gravity — anchors me in place. I aspire to
embrace aging with grace. I sense the encroachment of greys;
those emerging silver strands blend into the horizon of new days.

Isn’t life so strange; contradiction: we know of it like a friend, even
while it can turn adversarial until the end. Shifting seamlessly
between ally and adversary, these moments of joy and sorrow;
exalting in its beauty even as it envelops us in its enigmatic embrace?

So profound in depth and meaning, a symphony of paradoxes
harmonizing into the melody of our journey. I only aspire to embrace
aging with grace, oh what a shame — we move forward, embracing
the uncertainty with grace, as time continues its ceaseless march.
A steadfast friend from the break of day, an adversary until the sun
sets.

In the glow of screens,
we gathered,
Farmville requests from aunts,
a world of laughter,
simple joys shared like sunlight,
photos blooming like flowers,
each snapshot a moment held close.
But shadows crept in,
voices grew louder,
arguments ignited in the digital crowd,
once a haven for stories and cheer,
now a battleground,
where fear and anger drown out connection.
Oh, to step back,
to mute the noise,
to cherish the small moments,
to find joy in simplicity.
Can we learn to listen?
To hold our space with care?
To share our truths without fear of judgment?
Imagine a world where we pause,
where empathy reigns and understanding flows.
Let’s reclaim the joy of a simple post,
the warmth of shared memories,
the bonds that matter most.
If we could remember how to talk again—
to share our lives without the weight of expectation,
to celebrate each other’s stories as our own.
Maybe then we can find our way back,
to laughter and support,
to kindness woven through our words.
And maybe one day,
we will step into that light again—
not as warriors in an endless fight,
but as friends seeking connection,
hearts open to the beauty of being together.