Snippets

The skin grows things When you're not paying attention. You expected the loss of collagen, And maybe accept it, But the tiny silver cactus needles, That emerged beneath your eye overnight, Those weren't in the manual. This is your right eye, The eye with the crows feet. The mole just below Your right orbital rim Was never without a most stubborn and persistent Stiff black hair. Only the two white ones are new. This is your right side. This was never your good side. The left side has the dimple And smooth eye. The pores on the left Aren't as clogged. The left side was always your good side, Now, it is your young side. You can tell by the eyebrow ring scars. You didn't expect your freckles to join, Forming age spots. You didn't expect to see them all over your body. You expected your breasts and buttocks to sag, But were mesmerized When you first noticed that gravity Has the same effect on your abdomen and thi

You realized a long time ago that the ocean smells the same everywhere. Florida humidity nestled in your nasal hairs when you were small. You carried it home, unaware. And now it's everywhere that home used to be. Decades-long olfactory hallucinations That almost made you angry Over losing something that was never really yours. It's yours, but you're still almost angry, And then the nostalgia hits. You're elated. Speeding down the highway to nowhere. Speeding, speeding, speeding, Unnecessary miles out of your way For that pack of cigarettes you told yourself you wouldn't buy, Just for the sake of driving, Because you once loved it. Speeding down the highway, With the windows rolled down, Blasting the subversive music of your aging generation, Screaming-singing along with Rage At the top of your lungs, Like you used to when your hair blew wild, Even while sitting still at the longest red light in the history of travel. Y

His eyes were always old, But I only ever saw them as the calm beyond the storm. An open invitation to safe sanctuary for all. Our confessor. Our blanket. Our target. He can't extract the magnets, Embedded in his aura, Drawing the corners of his mouth up, up, up, Even when he feels like he's drowning. Somehow, they always find their way into his personal space. The derelicts, The downtrodden, The lonely, The bitter, The angry, The leeches, We feast on his ears, Politeness oft mistaken for giving a damn. I steal sidelong glances, To admire his beauty in candid moments, Always hoping to find contentment on his unmasked face. I'll stare for minutes at a time At a man whose face bears no creases of age, Contradicted by the weary torment he can neither hide, Nor hide from. I only wish to nourish and love, Ever wanting to be his pillow and shield. And if he hurts By all that I've taken, His pain only casts shadows