Neverland

i’m giving myself ten minutes to grow up, 
and with every minute that passes i am remembering
balloons and party hats and streamers 
and the second star to the right, 
straight on ‘til morning.

every year i write myself a poem for my birthday, 
but this year i think i’ll write a poem about 
peter pan and he’ll die in the end and everyone 
will be sad. i’ll be the saddest though, 
because there comes a point in your life 
when you realize that you’re not peter pan, 
or wendy, or even a lost boy.

(how sad, i think, to be lost but not a lost boy.
it doesn’t matter though, because neverland isn’t 
real and now look, i’m another year older, and what 
have i even done with my life?)

today i’m twenty-three and peter pan is dead.
my ten minutes have passed and i still haven’t 
grown up. people around me forget how to talk
to mermaids, and no one claps because no one 
believes in fairies, or flying, or themselves.

today every birthday candle looks like a bone
and i still have so many wishes left to make.
maybe i should know who i am and what i am 
doing by now, but i don’t know. i don’t care. 
i’m twenty-three and this is all i have, it’s all i
will ever have. you can keep your careers and cars
and aspirations. i will be waiting by my window 
for a little boy with stars for eyes who can 
never grow older because he is dead.