It is a natural degradation, window to bed to screen. I’ll scroll down by the likes of it, each sagging wrinkle of my eye performing its rightful duty, marking one end of my fatigue to the next. I’m age-old now. Oof. That’s the next sound you’ll make. When you see the fire’s gone out in the cold, cold basement. Next time you see me. All bunched up in white cloth and half-singed dreams. Not a sad thing, not really, but this is still a wake. And you are still the most beautiful thing. **
This thought came to me a couple nights ago. I have one more line I want to work on in the poem, so I might add more later! Stay tuned!
Beautiful writing. I really really liked this one.
Can’t wait to read it in its final form!