What does it feel like to be @ 90?

When I put a hand to my chest, I feel it flutter.

No butterfly—

a moth trapped in the lantern of my ribs.

90 is closer to 100, but it leans toward 50,

as if time is a pendulum swinging both ways.

I remember 20, how it sat in my youthful palm,

small and trembling—a newborn sparrow.

They say most forget their first steps,

and none remember the follies of being two,

but I remember the first two souls

who cupped my words like water in their hands.

Growth does not hold a mic—it hides behind the curtain,

like a scent woven into old napkins,

like footprints pressed into the shore,

silent, until you turn back and see

how far you've come without knowing.

And now, 90 names hum in my hands,

each a candle flickering against the dark of my doubting mind.

I gather them like wildflowers in my arms,

wondering if they know—

they have become the ink in my veins.

90 names, 90 individuals, 90 lifestyles, 90 beautiful souls.

To my 90 lifelines who longed to read my amateurish lines,

who amplified my timid voice and turned my pages into places to belong—

To my 90 lifelines who found home in my paragraphs—

If words could hold weight,

mine would bow in gratitude,

for every read, every linger, every silent nod in sync with my verbose clutter...

I promise, till the strands of my hair turn 90—if they will,

I’ll keep echoing every whisper that ever told me,

Keep writing.

Here's to my 90 awesome subscribers.🥂❤️