On this, the eve of my own birth—and for my 27 years upon this Earth, inside of this body—
the waiting is all I can do.

Waiting to cross the threshold of my own existence, I sit with anxiety and wonder if I’ll show up again; I wonder if I’ll make it this time.

And here, surrounded—glow and smoke with candle flames and incense names and ever burning wicks—
I hope that I’ll be born again, or burn out like these sticks.