a softer gaze

{ancient muses whisper and flitter as honey pours and waterfalls giggle}

some of us never grow old, for crow's feet are unlike tree rings. the joy is voluntary, the memories like balm. you can never grow old is your spirit is young.

i mold visions of you in my mind and from my hands, your likeness shifting with every pinch and nick of clay. i think i know that it’s not you i want, but what you became under my vigilance.

smooth, unwounded. without baggage, unhuman.