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.