My hands are starting to look
more like my mothers.
Settled skin,
deeper knuckle creases,
thinning fingers
as though the
layers of youngness have shed.
I am just noticing.
The entire length of my body
is finding it’s way to a state
of adulthood—as the lines
that frame my mouth seem
to stay well after my grin
has forgotten the joke.
I want to cling to everything
so tightly—grip the youth in
my eyes,
the softness of my skin,
his hands,
with violent fierceness.
The sun is out for far less hours
in a day then I can ever remember
before.  Months pass, years.
And those few things I can see
in my future but haven’t quite
caught seem to be hanging like
a carrot on a string, and all
I can do is chomp at the bit.
A tired horse.  Dark eyes.
And wait.

Categories: Poetry

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