It's all too much

When the future is yesterday,

And tomorrow is a fading memory,

And all that talk of quitting adult things

Like we've been living some lavish adult lifestyle,

Become wind swept words

On the driest of parchment thin deserts,

Only then will age begin to matter.

Only then will we sit back and truly being to remember.

Not the hollow jawing of too few years

With friends that meant far too little,

But really remembering:

What He said,

What She felt like,

What He meant,

How She tasted.

That roadtrip.

Those tears.

His birth.

Their death.

Like Children Playing Dress Up

She cries tears like she lost something more significant than her silly doll,

And fourteen days and wholly countable hours meant a lifetime,

And trips to this Mecca and that Temple and Such and Such House of Worship

Really were meaningful Spiritual Experiences

As opposed to masturbatory intellectual exercises that left us sweaty and disheveled

In dire need of Mother's wash rag.

Like Children Playing Dress Up,

We drink too much,

And read loudly the words of Giants whose shiny black dress pants are conveniently pissed upon;

We smoke our lungs into some sort of glorified oblivion,

And call it class.

What the hell is class anyway?

What is age?

What is experience?

Why don't these pants fit?

Button up that shirt,

It's far too big.

How can you walk

When those shoes are twice the size of your feet?

We fill our bodies with holes

And fill them with

Obscure Music

And the Classics

And the PoMo

And Metal

And Each Other.

19 is the new thirty six,

And 20 is the new seventeen.

Like Children Playing Dress Up,

We feverishly rub ourselves red and raw with the Steel Wool of WhatCouldHaveBeen,

And gently wash our wounds with the welcomed Cotton of WhatWeSettledFor