Desirable, Desired
I’ve bloomed past blossom season, a frame held by flesh, fragile.
Wrinkles appear now, near feet left by crow.
You see the grey in the brown, see a patch of scalp showing,
you see the change in my gait, see my once brisk pace slowing.
But you don’t see me. I am no longer desirable, desired,
nor worth a glance from afar. A smile. You don’t see me.
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