In the same world but a different time we rose our hands and said, "Please, count us."
We printed our names, ages, naive thoughts, dreams, and said, "Are you counting?"
I think now, yes; some were keeping tabs and yet: one by one we became those who walk away.
And it is very quietly that I say,
"My name was once Brina.
And I was seventeen or nineteen or twenty one
(but who's counting?).
I held books and pens with stained hands
and fell and fell and fell and fell in love.
"But now
though I am still Brina,
I am twenty seven or twenty nine.
And stains have became shattered remains."
Still I raise my hand. "Please."