Old woman,
you shuffle past the bus stop,
coat dragging like the years you’ve worn,
eyes clouded,
face soft like pages turned a thousand times
and almost forgotten.

You walk like you’ve been walking
your whole life,
through the noise,
through the quiet,
through the people who left
and the ones who never came.

And me?

I just sit here.
Watching.
Like a ghost who hasn’t even died yet.

Because I don’t think I’ll make it there.
To where you are.
To where your bones ache but
your breath still rises.
To where your silence means survival.

I don’t think I’ll ever grow old.
Not like you.
Not like anyone.

They say ”you’re young, you’ve got time,”
but time feels like a hallway I can’t find the end of.
Like a clock with no hands,
ticking in a room no one else hears.

My days are…
blurry.

Tight in the chest.
Heavy in the head.
Like I’m dragging a life behind me
that I never asked for.
Like I’m underwater
but smiling at everyone above the surface
so they won’t ask
if I’m drowning.

Old woman,
how did you do it?
How did you live long enough
to forget some of the pain?
To bury people,
and still get up to buy bread
and feed birds
and water plants that will outlive you?

I can’t even imagine next week.
Let alone
next decade.
Let alone
wrinkles and soft sweaters
and stories that begin with
”When I was your age..”

I’m scared that I won’t get that far.
And part of me doesn’t care.

Is that awful?

Some days I hope I disappear quietly.
Without the drama.
Without the note.
Just.. a light going out
that no one noticed was flickering.

But you,
you’re still here.
And I don’t know if that’s strength
or just what happens
when you forget how to quit.

Old woman,
you’re not my grandmother.
You’re not anyone I know.
But watching you
makes me ache
for a future I don’t believe belongs to me.

I don’t want pity.
I don’t want advice.
I want to feel something that tells me
I might still be becoming
instead of slowly unraveling.

So I sit here.
And I watch you.
And for a moment,
just a moment
I imagine
that maybe
somehow
I’ll last long enough
to forget how much this hurts.

That maybe one day,
someone will watch me,
and wonder how I made it.

Version 1
The bench beneath me, sunlit and still,
A perch for gazing, a world to distil.
Children scattered, a vibrant tide,
Feeding ducks, then rushing the slide.

A boy, face smeared with bread’s white trace,
Flings crumbs with an urgent, determined grace.
The ducks converge, a flurry of wings,
Ripples spreading, nature sings.

On the swings, a girl takes flight,
Her giggle bright, her hair alight.
She leans forward, daring the breeze,
Feet reaching high to the tops of the trees.

The slide claims its turn, metallic and grand,
A queue forms, restless, with grains of sand.
One child hesitates, then takes the leap,
Their laughter rises, joyous and deep.

Parents linger at the edges, near,
With watchful eyes and echoes of cheer.
The park alive, a canvas displayed,
Moments of wonder in sunlight replayed.

From my quiet seat, I watch and I see,
A world alive, endlessly free.
Time halts briefly in this golden space,
Children’s joy leaves a lasting trace

Version 2
The bench, my ship in a sea of spring,
Anchored in sunlight, where sparrows sing.
Children dart like kites unbound,
Their laughter the breeze, a joyous sound.

A boy, a maestro with breadcrumbs in hand,
Conducts a symphony on the rippling strand.
The ducks waltz in their feathery parade,
Water their stage, sunlight their cascade.

A ******* the swing, a pendulum in play,
Her hair catches the sun’s golden ray.
She soars toward the heavens, toes tracing skies,
A tiny comet with endless tries.

The slide gleams like a dragon’s tail,
Inviting the brave to its glistening trail.
One child hesitates, then takes the dive,
Emerging below, electrified, alive.

Parents hover like guardians of lore,
Their faces lit with quiet rapport.
The park blooms with stories untold,
Moments like petals, both fragile and bold.

From my quiet harbour, I sip the view,
A kaleidoscope of life, in every hue.
Time pauses here, where innocence thrives,
A canvas painted with radiant lives.

They sat together in the dimly lit room,
Two souls entwined in an invisible gloom.
The air grew thick, as the seconds stretched,
In a silence profound, their nerves were etched.

Eyes would flicker, searching for a place to land,
Fingers fidgeted, twisting a silver band.
A cough, a sigh, a shuffling of feet,
Echoed like thunder, in a silence discreet.

"Lovely weather," one finally said,
As the other nodded, wishing for words instead.
Their cups of tea, now lukewarm and still,
Matched the conversation, awkward and shrill.

Thoughts raced wildly, but words refused to stay,
Like skittish birds, they fluttered away.
A clock ticked loudly, in the corner it chimed,
Filling the void, with seconds unkind.

Minds would wander, then snap back in place,
Searching for cues, in the other's face.
An accidental glance, then quickly withdrawn,
Eyes meeting briefly, then back to the drawn.

Awkward silence, a dance so hard to bear,
Yet in its midst, a strange bond shared.
For sometimes in the quiet, without a word,
Connections are made, though nothing is heard.

In that fragile stillness, where time seemed to freeze,
They found a fleeting comfort, a strange, subtle ease.
Though silence hung heavy, like a cloud above,
In its awkward embrace, they discovered a kind of love.

I walk up to the counter ready to place an order to go.
With coffee and cookie in tow,
i head to my favorite spot and get ready for the show.
3..2..1 let's go!
What's the show you ask?
I don't know! It's different every day
and plays whether the sky is blue or gray.
It could be a traffic jam,
a man trying to wash people's cars,
someone getting arrested,
or even a guy in a costume saying he's an alien from mars. Whatever plays that day, it never gets old.
I get to learn about the people of my city
while staying out of the cold