at 23 i sit in a dimly lit wine bar
lifting a glass of champagne given to us on the house
by a manager of the attached grocery.
it's a new friend's birthday
and i, with three other couples,
laugh over how we've all come to be at this oak table
sipping complimentary drinks and nibbling at bread pudding.
at the same time my phone,
which i've kept purposely in my coat pocket,
is buzzing with talk of "barcelona in may"
and music festivals
and plane fares that cost more than i make in a month.
i stare at my wrist as i lift my glass to make yet another toast
and think about how many parts of me didn't exist in the past six months,
the past ten,
the past twelve.
these people were strangers,
my body was foreign,
income was a "what if,"
this place was not home.
we are not the final outcome of a life
but rather a collection of many.
a gallery of cocktails and bracelets and shared secrets and celebratory cups of coffee.
and this is all i strive for; the curated life.
