I liked to dream that I would wake inside my self ten years younger
with eyes that would blink hope towards the morning sun
without cinder blocks of fatigue or the fine lines of age
I wished against rationality that my decade of torrent and
grievous joyous decadent nothing and destruction and debt and
discovery and growth
could be whisked away for a swift return
to be hugged again by a shell of ignorance
I don’t even remember shedding.