I love the skin of age
and the age of old skin.
A part of me can’t wait for
cells that have reached past their days of glory,
that tell textured stories of resilience
and a satisfied lack of youth’s brilliance.
For scars that blend into wrinkles,
and freckles which warp into moles, sprouting black
pastures of perfect follicles.
Backs will hunch,
reality will lose clarity,
where many might
wish to rewind,
in visible lengths of life.