it comes with age

I don't know her.
This is the thought I have when I see my wrinkled eyes,
When I see the lines around my mouth,
When I see the graying around my temples.
I don't know her.
I am not that old.

My skin is changing.
I pinch my cheeks and they don't bounce back.
The bartender never asks me for my identification.
She puts a shot in front of me,
Shakes her head at how easily it goes down
The empty glass is replaced with a full one.
To her, I am an old drunk.
She shakes her head again,
I see what she is thinking
"it is a shame because she used to be beautiful."
there is no shame however,
because I prefer being tolerable to being called
beautiful.

The wind is colder.
I never knew winter to bite this hard
to grab my knee joints in a grizzled maw
pulling and pinching with arthritic teeth
leaving me with this invisible wound.
I want to escape,
where frost doesn't spread through my joints,
doesn't chill my blood, or make me ache.
But the best option I have is bed.

The part I can't see is how callous I become
how love doesn't settle in warm fleshy fields
because of my invisible frozen wounds.
Instead I have fear.
Fear spreads through my joints and I long for escape.
A shoulder that understands, but a man with no questions.
Someone who doesn't want or need anything I am or have,
But again,
The best option is bed.