aevum { aria }

Midnight.

A silent bell tolls, striking twenty-eight times - each beat a sullen reminder.

One. A new beginning, a change cycled. Renewed, refreshed, revamped, another day, another year, all hollow words but attempted promises.

Two. A snake sheds it’s skin two to four times a year, but how lucky am I to remain attached to my same cells for as long as I live.

Three. Three smokes in, and my lungs carbonate, bubbling up my esophagus, once limber and quick I am now confined to being stationary.

Four. Thorough and shameless, this is a fate chosen only by the willing - and that’s what I once was, willing.

Five. Five picture frames sit, lay, kneel, on the mantle: mom, dad, my brother, my sisters.

Six. Recklessness was abandoned in youth, with time comes weariness and as another bell tolls, I know it’s ever fading.

Seven. They dance among the slivers of smoke pointed out the butts of cigarettes. Weaving and writhing, their time has passed, mine has not.

Eight. Her home, her life. Do they visit her grave? Do they remember her name? After all, she was just a little girl.

Nine. The bell tolls, and with every waking second I am reminded once again that I am alive, and they are not.

Ten. Stars do not shine as bright any more, they flicker and pass. They are frozen moments in time and space, but time is running.

Eleven. Time is running, but I.. am not.

Twelve. Mediocrity is not a mortal sin.

Thirteen. Charts of charts drape the living room, years of work mapping out the stars and their positions, a tracking device.

Fourteen. There was nothing new to discover. Some days they shine bright, other not - the simplest of hobbies to get lost in.

Fifteen. Little Girl, please.

Sixteen. A celebration I wish I could have shared with her, I wish, uh - I wish. I wish I wish I wish I wish

Seventeen. I have grown, but they have not, she has not. Time progressed past seventeen -

Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven.

Twenty-eight. Eleven birthdays, countless wishes, and a whisper, “dear Peri.” Faint but audible,

“Another year, Little Girl, another year.”