7.26.23
one day you’re 16,
and you think to yourself,
“I hope I don’t wake up.”
and then you turn 18,
then 20,
then 26,
and you start to think,
quietly at first,
“I hope I do wake up.”
I hope I wake up for coffee shops,
and walks down the sidewalk —
playing hopscotch across the broken pieces.
I hope I wake up for farmers markets peaches,
and front porch talks.
I hope I wake up to sit in the sun,
soak up new freckles on my cheeks,
the laugh lines around my eyes.
I hope I wake up tomorrow to experience
little joys again.
one day you’re 28,
and the hope to not wake up
has loudly turned into
“I hope I do wake up.”
