class of 2006

the pulse of the clock punctures every empty moment. two sleeps more in a bed on the floor of a house I’ve haunted far too long. people ask me why I’m leaving and I’m meant to have an answer. I dwindle on the fence and fold the clothes I used to wear into the purple suitcase. fishing for space for stationary to find receipts for car rentals in Paris and photos of strangers posing for graduation (class of 2006). I was seven years old. I wanted to run faster than my cousin and grow up to be the pope. when did I stop dreaming? 

but look around the corner: there is always something more. water wishes as I sleep. wake to flowers in the stream.