I’m a wilted rose in the ceramic vase I made. But that was a year and a half ago. My contacts dried up in January and it’ll be March tomorrow.
My hair is much less lustrious then it used to be, much too brown now.
My clothes are plainer than five years ago, and I don’t feel sexy
There’s a speck of water in my stem, but no one cares but me. Although maybe they do care and pity me, but won’t say anything because this is the life I’ve chosen.
But today I drove to the city with all the windows down. I let my hair loose and it flew around me with no gravity. It was warm so I smiled, and I felt 16 again.
But my spirit stopped when the car did. My hair didn’t dance, but turned mousy. Glasses pulled heavy on my brow. This isn’t me.
I’m evergreen, like pine. I’m a dance on the hands of time. And there on my mousy coat is a sheen that you’ve never seen. Yes, it stings. A sheen that brings a sting. A feeling thing thats meaning gets lost. It’s luster is muddled, but there. I know it’s there.