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I am nearly twenty-nine;
you understand,
I want wine.
Overall yes
I admit it's fine
to gain a year.
I do not mind.
Only death
keeps one behind on time.
I am prompt,
I am punctual.
I do not pine
over decades.
To mourn the past
is most unkind;
we are not VHS cassettes,
do not rewind,
cannot unbind our past
from our present like
a river, or a child.
I am almost over.
I cannot divine
the future, but for all
my mortal whining we both know
that time continues,
as will I.
A few more hours;
twenty-nine.
I hope my thirties
do not lie.