Because You're Older

You get emails from From You Flowers,

as if you're always a breath away  

from needing to mourn or console.  

You wonder if they've tracked your inbox  

for obituaries.  

The names come more often now—  

friends, mentors,  

even that one kid who always knew the cheat codes.  

It’s easier to lose people when they’re pixelated,  

harder when they were flesh,  

laughing on a beach you haven’t seen in 25 years.  

God, 25 years.  

The calendar feels warped,  

days stretching long,  

decades snapping tight.  

Wasn’t I just there?  

Didn’t I just say that?  

The mirror disagrees,  

its silence more haunting  

than its truths.  

You don’t know what’s cool anymore.  

You stopped caring  

somewhere between the third wave of ska  

and the death of DVDs.  

Maybe it’s freedom,  

or maybe it’s surrender—  

both feel the same.  

Your legacy floats like a question mark  

on an endless sea.  

Will they remember your kindness,  

your wit,  

the way you always let them pick the radio station?  

Or will it dissolve,  

like old ink on a love letter  

tossed into the rain?  

You’re trying to have more good days than bad.  

Trying to say yes to sunsets  

and no to despair.  

Trying to laugh when the universe  

emails you flowers,  

because it knows how much  

you’ll need them.