chrica

if we grow old there will be a sigh an attention to the change as your muscles slacken underneath your faded, favorite shirt the one that's threadbare, "holy" in a sense less than divine I'll have washed it for the thousandth time our eyes will crinkle, wrinkle in ways that start to match and we'll hold hands and ask: when did the nerves and veins begin to let our hands get cold? -if we grow old