One day I was alone, then you came,
and I was alone again.
I guess I wasn’t that good at inventing dreams,
and my hands tend to get sweaty.

When you were still here, I couldn’t decide
whether I was young or old. Now that you are gone,
I shower only so often; I open a book
but don’t always read it—sometimes I just enjoy
the texture of the paper; and I save my voice,
or perhaps I’m simply too embarrassed to talk
to myself. But at least I can finally laugh
about my age dilemma.