maelynslavik

When my hair begins to grey, I will rejoice.

My crow’s feet will race farther than my aging joints could ever take me.

They will run down my cheek and jaw to meet my laugh lines, 

Sometimes I look into the reflection and see the little boy with forest green eyes 

begging the world to end so he wouldn’t feel anymore. 

But then I see an old cripple 

I haven’t been to upstate New York since I was ten years old and we drove away from our house there without looking back.

Whispers so cruel flood the news,

Filling many hearts with fear. 

Some listen to only what they want to hear. 

Their denial leaves a black and blue bruise. 

    The last time I saw Her.  It feels so much more final to say it that way, but I guess it’s the same outcome either way.  When I think about it logically, I can understand that She’s never coming