Twenty

What an age.
Periodicity says,
Three more on average.

Don't capitalize that next line.
three more on average.
I regret nothing.

Three more on average.
Statistics know how to catch
you and me and them.

It's a probably 
paired with a maybe
consistent with paid work
and the summer that said:
you now know what it's like
to be on a ratty basement couch
with a friend of an ex
learning what we could do
in the dark and mustful taste.

Follow up with another two digit:
don't count, that's crass.
Or some other way:
we need to know where we are.

That's what the common era says:
pitch a perfect shame 
and catch your own mess
unless there's someone there
to swill your swell
and be dignified as one
while knowing doesn't know. 

It's here, now, never not.
Twenty. Twenty? Twenty three? Ten?
I'll go.

I have more questions.
Definitions to clarify, really.
Three more, on average.

And while we're both waiting,
let's remember
that youth requires the end.