Shadows

There are shadows
on my face. My hair
announces my years,
my arrival into this new
place. My voice the folding
of an aged tongue
pushes out sound
from lungs that sigh
instead of sing. I admit,
like an answer hard
to swallow, that I have
less of me now, less
than I had last year, or
the year before. Each step
confirms my new world,
which isn't new at all, but full
of footstep from those
that went before me. My hands
keep reaching back,
not for balance, but to hold
onto the me that slips away,
that still remembers the shine
of your smile, the curve
of your breast, the blood
of your hand held up to light,
my light, when we were new.