Birthday Eve

The passage of time never felt so real

as now, in the hot night of my room

one day before

I know for sure that I am

not

a child.

The fan hangs is head wearily

casting shadows over spiders spinning

silk sheets and love nests.

The light peeps out at me from under a shade

its cyclops eye bulging

with watery boldness.

A half-empty jar of perfume

glittering picture frame

rumpled hair bands beside watches

and a dusty pack of playing cards:

will these be here tomorrow?

One second means the

passing of a day, the

end of a life.

I need to understand that

time is slowly carving me away,

but inside I still feel immune.