I sometimes look forward to the future where I have grown old too young.
I will still be little more than a sapling; not even grown to half of my potential,
but my boughs will already be taut and still, held by a thin glaze of hoarfrost.
My face will be dour and I will wear dark glasses even on overcast days.
I will have deathly pale arms, withered by time and the chill of Eastern winters,
and my skin will be pallid and pulled taught by unwarranted dolor.
I’ll be no more than rattling bones with skinny, spry fingers that scratch and tap furiously;
scribbling letters to distant friends and an unfamiliar family.
I’ll tell them about the weather and the poplars,
the wide-eyed girls and the soft-skinned boys,
and I will smile, knowing that they’re unaware they’re talking to a ghost.