In the southern night you reserve minutes
by the windowsill. It’s 8:30.
This moment will pass you by
or so you feel if you don’t celebrate
cause you look at sixteen. It came,
it went and you never would have known the border
between solialize and capitalize
gave your individuality away
and crying, you mourned your brown hair
when a year before, it might have been hunger.

Now, seven years later, things are different,
and it’s lattes with extra foam.
It seems that everyone is past change.
There’s something about spinning dreams
and actually acting. There are those who carefully plan
for their life, for your life, for everyone.
You say it’s nice in the middle.

The hours torture you with their speed,
you say. You say the difference
sensed in life with God is similar
to surviving on rich abundance,
sometimes intangible.
You clothe yourself in yesterday
but act in certainty of tomorrow.
This might have seemed odd two
years ago, but now it is necessity.
Outside an SUV drives away.
Colored lights glare in the dark.
Another day grinds into history.