Doves

And all you said was,

'there is a time and

a place to grow up.'

But maybe I did not

want to, maybe if I

acted my age, then life

would become too serious.

I knew how to masquerade, and

play the part of the full-fledged,

but I wasn't ready to

take off my mask of

youth. Perhaps I had to

leave my puerile days too

soon, and this was my

way of not letting go.

Because once it slipped out

of my fingers, that's it,

there would be no going

back. No more ditching plans,

and staying out for days,

no more packs upon packs

of cigarettes just because of

boredom, or lack of better

things to do. That's it,

no more midnight bike rides,

or drinking until dawn in

the park. I could see

all my glorious wasted days,

falling away. Now, it's strange.

Part of me wants to

follow in my father's footsteps,

part of me wants to

be a man like he

is; give everything I can,

and raise my own children,

and be as loving and

selfless to my wife as

he is to my mother.

Part of me wants to

get up when it's still

dark to put food on

the table, and live a

quiet existence, up in the

hills of Maine or Vermont,

with my pen and paper,

stove and axe, while the

other part of me wants

to leave my mark of

existence on society, by doing

nothing, and doing it well.

Part of me wants to

stay in bed, tangled in

the sheets, skin to skin,

all day long; champagne and parliaments,

no responsibilities but to love,

and to be loved. An

existence that says 'I did

what I did.' Maybe those

days will never be quite

over, they will be like

a bird on a wire,

balancing when the wind blows.