Age is Sexy

Age is sexy.

Period. No exceptions.

Well, wait. I guess if you’re like, 98…

When does it stop being sexy?

When does the fruit on the tree turn

from succulent

to reluctant?

I have eaten young apples with

large, rotted, moldy

spots of flesh.

Age doesn’t seem to make you rot,

something else is the culprit.

What makes an apple rot?

Is it a witches potion?

Or a bitches brew

Does Snow White age

when she sleeps?

Or is youth and beauty what she

Gains by sleeping through?

One bite–

Does it poison you instantly ?

or is it a lifetime of decline

slowing up on your spine

withering, weathering, tearing up constantly

a disease of the mind

Age, to me,

seems to be perspective.

The numbers are arbitrary.

The build, the climax, the decline, the decay

all mirages of stories we tell when we’re dead

Nothing about age is relevant to me

only what you’ve done, what you’ve said

what you’ve seen.

So yes, age

I guess

Is sexy to me

only if you’ve lead a life worth living for

and didn’t play it safe, hoping that

someone would see you later,

waiting for the one you’ve always loved.

Then, age, seems full of folly.

There is no living unless you’ve

risked all for life and love–

without regretting falling.

 

 

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