Little Boxes

Sing the song you're meant to sing.

You realize these sheets of paper have lied empty, unwritten, for far too long. You no longer recognize your face in the mirror, the skin underneath your fingertips. There's grime in this closet that hasn't been touched in ages. I told her what it was like to be 25 and discover you could leap and land on your feet, and now I've been on my feet so long I forget what it was like to fly. You believe you can be happy and also free, believe you can barrel through art and still feel the soil underneath your feet.

As the days pass, you just don't remember how to go about it.