You’re not 17 anymore

Some nights still sound like Lonesome Town,
a radio humming low in a room
that remembers you better than you do.
The streets are empty, but not really—
they’re full of who you used to be.

And suddenly, it’s December.
Not the December of 17,
with borrowed coats and reckless laughter,
but a quieter one—
where the cold settles deeper,
and you’ve learned how to be alone
without making a scene.

You’re not 17 anymore.
You haven’t been for a long time.
Still, sometimes you touch the memory
just to be sure it’s real—
the way youth felt endless,
the way love was loud,
the way sadness came with music
and not with silence.

O children, the night seems to whisper,
lift up your voice.
But your voice is softer now,
worn smooth by years and waiting.
You sing anyway—
not to be heard,
but to remember.

The snow keeps falling like forgiveness.
Time keeps walking past without looking back.
And you stand there, older, gentler,
holding the ghost of who you were,
reminding yourself—

You were young once.
You were golden once.
And even now,
in this lonesome December town,
something in you still sings.

Onnaya