I am being old.
It is what I do when the year is new.
I think of last chances,
I think of this mad race to the end,
I think of how dark seeds might wrest my soft tissue,
and I eat vitamins.
I criticize stiff knees
and pull up skin on the back of my hand
to see how long it takes to pull back.
I regret all the youthful sex I forgot
because I drank too much in my twenties.
But then I remember:
I know love now
better and more than I once did,
my orgasms are hard fists of bright memory,
and I am brave enough to see my sins
and raise them a finger on good days.
I am older now.
I am less terrible.
I am more loved.