Youth is always right. Age is always wrong.
There is nothing at the end of the song
But what was wrong in the beginning.
Youth sighs. Age calls it sinning.
Age thinks to make a song to preserve
Feelings—which age doesn’t deserve.
Youth doesn’t need a song
Or rules. The old are wrong.
When you wrote your first poem, you were old.
Your first wallet. You told what you were told.
The first moment you remembered childhood
You knew you couldn’t be any good.
The first time I put you in a song,
It made me think I loved you—it was wrong.
The muscle memory of our affair.
We kissed. Our parents didn’t care.
There is only one story: Peter Pan.
Peter outside of Wendy’s window, deciding not to be a man.