Age poaches mystery and chastises the youth that your sullen face no longer fits.

None of the memories of her I have are
gentle.
Brick covered corners and concrete crosses.
Sat in the rail yard high on her face smoking cigarettes.
Neon will never be our costume again.
We grew up compulsory
We went out of her arms unwilling -
to work the earth and
perish.

But that is just how it is
the constant of change

Someone else is inside of her.
Someone else is tasting her soul.
Someone is opening her doors
and someone else is closing her
windows.

Her face is tattooed on my shoulder
but that too will die
and be buried
with
me.