Tired and hollow, I’ve been scraped of my marrow.
There’s little left to love but the hope of it.
I used to be so afraid to miss it.
Now, I’m content tending to my own shadow.
It’s a sweet thing you often forget
Until you stumble on it in the wild,
Like honeysuckle along the bike trail,
Stirring a quiet fondness for youth.
The smell is wistful,
But there’s bitterness in the aftertaste
Spoiled, laced with skepticism
Like it might poison me if I take too much.
Still, I find myself returning to it,
Every time I circle ’round again.
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