19.

They talk about 17 too much.

All the playlists and passenger seats it comes with,

turning our money into oxygen and consuming it like heartbreak.

Lot's of nothings that turned into heartbreaks.

Lot's of heartbreaks that turned into nothings.

That sounds like us, at 17.

They talk about 18 too much, too,

like a bucket of broken screws and wild eyes.

We made metaphorical love,

found our names written on all the postcards from France.

We burned rivals to their ruins

and led a funeral march for our streaking days.

We broke a few,

lost a few,

gained a few.

But 19.

No one ever writes about 19.

19 doesn't make love to your ears,

and it doesn't feel right on your shoulders,

and you didn't give yourself up to 19

as easy as you did 18.

Maybe it's because aged hearts know better

than to hand themselves over.

Maybe they know better

than to push the years like buttons on a time machine.

Maybe these wild eyes don't see souls like they used to.

They always were his favorite feature,

the way they saw too deep,

how you couldn't look long at them.

19 doesn't sound right

or look right

or talk right.

And maybe 18 left its wild eyes in a bucket of broken screws.

But maybe, just maybe,

19 is carrying that bucket.

And maybe, 

just maybe,

it's going somewhere.