23

You only love me,
age 23,
in this city.
The future holds no possibility,
and you feel no responsibility,
as far as I can see,
for the way I’ll feel
when you leave.

You’ll go on to be
a bright gleam,
in a sea
of shining beings:
people with straight teeth,
desirable duties,
and somewhere to sleep.

And I’ll still be
a young lady,
age 23,
boney knees
and too giving,
with a proclivity
for everything weak.

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