A Husk

i haven't felt lifted
from my body in
some time, not
into the tree leaves
shimmering or
the star soaked night
sky. am i aging 
gracelessly, into
a callus, a husk, a
woman who won't
see any awe anymore
just the thinning of 
hair that caused too
much grief-the vanity
the hours wasted 
colouring at the sink.
the tension in my
fingers curled around
my cups I no longer
feel, so enamoured of
the broken mirror,
it's not me, it is me,
this callus, this husk, this
woman who relates every
lie back into herself...
it is not true, but it is
you, the laughter i caught
could have been mine
if i had been wise enough
to let it embed there in
my tongue instead of
insisting it was mine
on borrowed time
time is not a gift given
time is not for the receiver
i should accept finally it
for what it is.
It just is.