When I Grow Old

This piece was written by Luke Yazbek.

when I grow old, I want to have seen the stars, like the postcards of my coming travels, shining

when I grow old, I want to have smelt the pungencies of life – breathe the flavours of a new morning

when I grow up, I’d like to be able to brush past something somebody
that I can
look to, something, breathing, listening –

shining and alive

when I grow up, I’d like to hear their whispers on the air currents – stories, perhaps – not knowing how far they’ll take me

from where

to where
no, should I know

there is no room to take me
not now, when there’s no room to even grow

in this room, these four walls
closing in, were I to push back could I even would it even
my mind, at least

when I decide to live, when I write those postcards, will I
somewhere new


when will that flood from the banks of my future nestle upon the shore
or ferry me

when will it decide
like the whispers of some unbridled feeling to let me know that should I grow old
I this present could abide