Wear Your Grails

A girl keeps a dress in the back of the closet
Held hostage in plastic with price tags,
Saved for a rooftop, a kiss, an evening in Paris.

But life kept moving the goalposts while she waited for meaning.
Now the fabric is faded,
Fashion has changed.

The mirror still reflects her shape, but not her eyes.
She wore sweatpants to the years she was meant to feel beautiful.

A man says he will call his mother tomorrow.

Tomorrow folds into next week,
Next week into next month,

Until hospice,

Then last rites,
And a suit and tie

Arrange flowers he doesn't remember ordering.
Now every ringtone sounds haunted.

A woman saves expensive perfume for “special occasions.”

She survived heartbreak, illness, unemployment

And learned how to love herself in a studio apartment with broken A/C.
Day after monumental day.

A kid with deadstock Jordans displayed like stained glass saints.

His friends beg, “Bro, just wear them.”
But he’s terrified of creases, of dirt, of time touching something he loves.
His whole life was built behind museum rope.
Fine china never serving meals.
Unlit candles.

Ideas aging into excuses.
Even his laugh sounds unopened.

Meanwhile a lady is dancing in her grails at the bodega,
Scuffing the toes under moon beams,

Buying mangoes and rolling papers,

And telling strangers they look familiar because embarrassment is cheaper than regret.
Her shoes are incredible.

Nobody warns you.
We think preserving something protects its value.
But time is the real thief in the room
Quietly stealing from us.
Not your dress,

Not your shoes,
You.
Minute by minute like a pickpocket with velvet hands.


And the museum of your untouched things

With unlit candles,

Unworn sneakers,

And unminted dreams,
Expose you spent your time preserving the evidence of spirit

Instead of animating it.
And nothing ages faster
Than a life unlived.

— Tami Jo Urban