At seventeen,
I thought I knew,
the wisdom of the world,
ones who’d love me,
and those who wouldn’t,
a hand that would guide,
and a step
that could lead me home.
I thought I understood,
it seemed so clear,
so black and white,
almost transparent,
but this year I see in colour,
and the picture in my mind
by contrast, curled and faded,
turning in my hands.
I thought I knew,
but in truth
was barely awake to myself,
and the film in my camera,
which I kept preserved,
like a pressed rose,
should have been opened,
a long, long time ago.
