i remember the sweet honeysuckle days
when they would ask me
what i wanted to be when i grew up,
and i would say,
with the confidence only innocence provides,
“an author.”

i can’t say that i haven’t held on
to that youthful desire—
no, it lingers in the back of my mind,
a dream that glows dimmer with every year.

but as i’ve grown older,
as life has gotten less colorful
and my words feel like shadows
of what they used to be,
i’ve realized that some dreams
are better left as dreams.

perhaps it isn’t meant to be—
perhaps i was only ever meant to write
for myself,
to weave a world where no one else
has to live but me.