Those Years Called Youth

The sky, I swear, was bluer then,
Or perhaps that’s how I choose to remember—
Those were days when trains were always late,
And dreams often missed their stop.

We spoke in promises, never in plans,
Etched our hopes in chalk along quiet streets,
And laughed as though the world
Were made entirely of summer evenings.

Our hearts, unburdened,
Knew love without disclaimers,
And sorrow came unnamed,
Gentle in its arrival.

We lived between the chime of bells
And the hush of cafés,
Where aspirations steamed
From mugs held too long, too tightly.

Every goodbye felt temporary,
Every friendship, a forever,
And each kiss
A tiny rebellion against the ticking clock.

But like rain slipping from forgotten rooftops,
Those moments faded—
Not vanished,
Only softened by time’s patient hands.

That was youth.
Not merely the brightness of age,
But the ache of becoming—
The quiet pain of growing into ourselves.