Now the lamplight flickers
I’ve bloomed well past blossom season, no fleshy pink
petals here. Wrinkles appear now. 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 what you don’t see is me: I am no longer
desirable, desired, nor worth a smile, a glance from afar.
I’ve grown out of season, a dead drink left atop bar. I cling
to youthful glow for that is when you saw me. Now the
lamplight flickers, the bulb is on its last. A livewire fuse close
to short. As I pass, you might see a shoulder hunched, an
eye cast down. You see hands that surely once held a lover’s,
lips that had stories to tell. But that clock is ticking and so
you turn. And what you don’t see is me. I’ve written words
you might read, taught things you might learn; once, you
saw me dancing under club lights, saw me whoosh by on
rollercoasters. But that hand is moving, and you’re conscious
that time wants to flee. You see a body, a person, a
frame with history. But what you don’t see is me.
Copyright © Thomas Harrison | Year Posted 2025
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