Childhood;
It sped past us like a car
with blinding headlights-
The driver,
A person who did not know how to stop.

I remember making paper planes,
And imagining a miniature version of myself
On them;
Whizzing past galaxies of chocolate
And infinite possibilities.

Newspapers would be stolen
From under the nose of my grandfather;
I’d make paper boats
And watch them sail away-

Far away, far away, far away.

Childhood was tattooing
Butterflies on our cheeks,
And admiring the colours for days to come.

It was getting wet in the rain,
Going on trips without worrying
About the homework we would miss.

It was roadside ice-cream
And orange tongues,
Finger painting,
Blue grass and yellow elephants,
Crossing our eyes
And calling ourselves ‘ghosts’

Living with reckless abandon.

Jumping,
Flying,
Soaring.

Now, as I work on trigonometry,
Dreaming –
paper hearts and soft epilogues,
Endings that are beautiful,
People who don’t leave.

Aren’t we all just kids
Searching for better days?

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