an impermanent inexactitude

Seven Years

Late night conversations, parties and ragers,
Mid-morning breakdowns over coffee-stained papers,
Meetings in classrooms that smell of memories lost,
Spaces that must be outgrown, no matter the cost.

Exchanged grins, suppressed giggles and hearts broken,
Backs stabbed by words that should remain unspoken,
Bottles and pills strewn across the night stand,
If you aren't rebellious, well then, you're just "bland".

Days are turbulent, oftentimes doubts are all to be seen,
What's the point? After all of this work, you still can't fit into your jeans,
Beauty and power are rearranged, one becomes the other,
As autumn becomes winter, and spring metamorphoses to summer.

In theory, seven years is everlasting... a lifetime.
In practice, it is a chaotic assortment of joy and pain, and yet, still your prime.