this week i've felt four decades pass and it's still only
wednesday. i've aged and died in this week, reborn in a beautiful compliment
that left me speechless and blushed and with a new fury that's aged me still.
my birthday is on friday and i am not sure how old i'll be.
my skin is made of wax paper, shiny and translucent. over my
knuckles it's sunken and stretched, new hollows of shadow, tendons squirming
about under there like the inside of a piano. so many layers. my hand as a
musical instrument. my hand as an old lady's hand, cold and papery, tiny blue
veins in the palm.
ribs in my chest i haven't seen in a long time. hello again.
pale face. pale eyes containing eons.
but the city has not aged along with me. my car is still clean
from yesterday's rain. that double rainbow, that golden honey twilight i could
taste, that distracted my heart from its own implosions, was that so long ago?
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