The Oldest in the Room

There’s a crackle of laughter, youthful and bright,

as I lean against the wall,

a half-empty glass warming my palm,

while they share whispers stitched from vibrant slang,

words slip by, too fast, tangled in nostalgia,

I nod and smile, but inside—

a quiet ache blooms, I am the relic here.

I remember when laughter felt like this,

bursts of air and unscripted delight,

but tonight I stand as the echo,

a faded photograph in their vibrant world.

The music pulses, vibrating through bone,

youth dances with time, while I

watch the moments shift like smoke,

feeling the space between, where once I belonged.