Older than me

Extremely late, when my hair doubted into turning grey or disappearing from its main places and had just started to show in unexpected new ones like god itself. When I had nearly forgotten I had a body and a soul, one skin to feel in this one only life. Tired and weak arms still willing to embrace for the first real time, a virgin tongue to spell such unknown unrevealed name so vividly and desire enough in my shortsighted eyes to bring them back to life, and start exploring sex dreaming all alone like an old panther under the winter sun at any lost zoo.

She was me, shocking me, not so old nor so young. Too much too soon, though pretended not to show anything but a dead calm. Sometimes wise and other times stupid, so deeply hilarious and profoundly sad, looking into and in front me both with an ancient pain and a dazzling innocence. So used to hide and shut up not to bother and for just being accepted.

How could I have come back to life? My flesh was not so young, my empty hands and broken heart were filled with sorrows and worries about how my life was vanishing and could find no answer, reason nor meaning but had kept following ahead with every second’s weight melting like load over my shoulders. I wished I would have been a different person, and then I doubted about all my decissions and ideas, my acts and convictions, everything I used to call I myself. How could have I ever been so obviously blind and defiant?

There was hardly an old memory that relies a tired loyalty. False friends, a tired charade called love that fortunately did not succeed and obsolete promises framed in big enormous words that fell down making excuses towards the truth of silence. Who will pass away first?