I scold my younger self too easily,
as if he could have seen this future
with clearer eyes, steadier hands,
or a compass that didn’t spin wildly.
He wore mistakes like mismatched earrings,
loud enough to be noticed,
too stubborn to take off.
He believed permanence was a reckless lie,
and tomorrow was always just optional.
I sit here, older, wiser,
with years puffed in my jacket pockets,
clucking my tongue like a disapproving clock,
mistaking time for some kind of halo.
But hindsight is a liar framed as clarity,
whispering, \"You should have known better.\"
As if the map is ever handed out
before you set foot on the trail.
If I’m honest, I miss his daring,
the way he plunged forward
without waiting for permission
to make a sound.