By Rachel Vargeletis | Observer Contributor
Eyes tend to glisten with a certain, familiar
Shine of regret the older one gets.
Wrinkles tend to cast a deeper, darker shadow
Upon their chagrinned pretense
The older one gets.
“Sorry”s feel empty and
“I love you”s only feel like a way of apologizing.
The sun hurts more than is ever brightens your day,
And suddenly,
You find your feet sore from
The routine
Instead of bouncing in eager leaps across each room,
Craving sand under their seasoned edges
And wet dirt between their wriggling toes,
The older one gets.
Worlds tend to fade into a comfortable
Black and white-
Lives tend to wrap themselves up in a
Cocoon of security.
Hair that once danced freely in the wind
Tends to find itself tucked away.
And arms that once held
The entire universe
In their tender embrace
Tend to cement themselves to one’s side,
The older one gets.
The smiles that glazed the soft cheeks of a lover
Tend to form now only
Robotically, laboriously.
No emotion- or an especial lack thereof.
No sentiment, and no passion.
Life suddenly means less,
Love suddenly seems less,
The older one gets.
One tends to die before the day one stops their breathing,
The older one gets.
And my question is
Why?
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