Thirty-three, you are here, unwavering
You are heavy, you are full, colder
but you are warm.
The double threes, a blaring siren,
I am shipwrecked.
Twice the hunger, the small mistakes
I keep rubbing clean
from the palm lines of my twenties.
I feel the pressure, the thousand pounds
of grainy milestones, passing my dock,
sand pressing against my breath.
The hour glass of my thirties
So with the gripping clutch
of a woman, I reach for the young girl
shivering in her quicksand,
I pull out a lighter,
thirty-three wicks glowing,
and I ask of her
not to wish, but to be brave
her own fire.