"Lucky you don't look your age,"
she tells me,
the phone vibrating in my palm
during our late night clandestine calls,
my birthday looming over me
like a dark angel against which
I have no lamb’s blood
To paint over my door.
I feel old, especially around her,
As if I am robbing the cradle,
A girl half my age, and yet,
Knows more about life
Than I ever will.
Filing it all
as if File Under Carnal Knowledge,
we switching roles
with me feeling like the infant
her voice so soothing,
I ache to rub if over
me like sacred oil,
Letting it penetrate me,
The way her voice does when she sings,
Even in the old videos on stage
Where she waits for her moment
To step up and play,
While a pack of fat old men hog the limelight.
Or when she sang here,
dressed in a tight black dress,
so young, so vibrant,
I feel old just trying to keep up with
all the thoughts that
run through my head,
few of which I dare
to share,
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