Each wrinkle tells a story, a memory folded under each tug of loose skin.
Chapped lips never meet; fluttering delicately and flowing a river of words.
Congealing in my own mind, ideas linger as I dream of walking in her shoes.
Arms fly wildly as her tales soar above my head; I long to reach up and catch one
But I am too young, they say.

All with a direction and a purpose, feet pound heavily on the pavement.
I stand still among them, waiting for my direction to beckon me.
Cell phones and iPods dangle out of purses, machines on which we greatly depend.
I stand empty handed, calloused feet, and waiting
For I am too young, they say.

I feel a spark is missing, but I’m told it all comes with time.
I know not where to find such an ember,
Whether it be a hypothetical glow or a visible scintillation.
My eyes will adjust; my pupils will permit-even welcome-this guiding light.
But I am too young, they say.

Time ticks slowly, tapping of foot.
Tapping of pencil,
Tapping of tongue against brackets on braces.
Tapping every resource until the body is completely drained.
Drained of energy,
Too tired to combat.
Too tired to try and grow up. I let it be.
I will run barefoot on summer pavement, track muddy prints on white carpets.
Evade a scolding while I still can.
Slosh in puddles on sidewalks, dance to the old record player.
Still ride my bike with the training wheels and dad’s hand on the seat,
For I am too young, they say.