Maybe I'Ve Grown, Just a Little

**This poem is a letter to another poem I wrote years ago titled "They Come Out at Night" which I'll post in a bit.** I wrote a poem yesterday but it didn't feel the same. These words don't bounce, lightening-quick, across the pages anymore. I take pauses where sparks once flew. I think too much now, or maybe I don't think enough. Questions are dangerous to entertain, and emotions are battle fields better left unvisited. I think I've even forgotten how to tango with my ghosts, and weren't they always my favorite source of inspiration? At 33, I feel like I've written it all. And then words come back to me, soft as a wing. These words pull their shades closed at night, and say a rosary before turning out the lights. These words, feel aged, like they know better, like they won't take anymore of your ****.