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“The final mystery is oneself. When one has weighed the sun in the balance, and measured the steps of the moon, and mapped out the seven heavens star by star, there still remains oneself. Who can calculate the orbit of his own soul?”- Oscar Wilde.

Pages of a book stuck between fingers.

You lick and lick and they stay attached

refusing to peel apart.

Hair like dryer lint, lifting in the wind

whisping away, fragile thing.

A ghost of years past

and on your face, the betrayal of truth.

Hubris washed off, and confidence broken.

Heart in shambles, the failures of relationships end.

Jobs lost and children angry.

Revealing the lonely ranks of insecurity.

I know nothing.

I am nothing.

I never was.

You are nothing too

but you posture, with your youth.

And maybe, that is good enough

while it lasts.