Those featherweight wrinkles that frame your words like quotation marks
will start to linger. So much so people will think you stole someone else’s words.
Liver spots will dot your cheeks. Cross little tee’s from that face you make
like you’re about to sneeze. And all of these lines will be written in ink.
Your forehead is journal paper for time.
The color around your pupils will remain bright.
But teeth will turn taupe. Hair grows thick gray and grainy.
Like an old black and white movie.
The audio will not always line up with their lips.
Falls will fall harder against hips.
Eyes will lose their taste for your skin.

And yours.

Yours will grow hungrier
than they’ve ever been.