Oldtimer

There are whispers under my skin,

My bones creak with the weight of days lived, memories created,

every breath I take feels like autumn air in my chest.

I hear time ticking, tapping at my consciousness

like a soft hammer on the fragile glass of my now,

reminding me of what’s to come

The mirror betrays my face —

unfamiliar cracks around my eyes, new lines that stretch like roads

leading somewhere far from here.

leading somewhere far from here.

What is death but a shadow we’ve always known,

looming in the corners of each room,

lurking under the weight of unsaid words?

A slow unraveling,

like the knit of your favorite sweater

loosened by years of touch,

until one day,

the thread is gone.

I see the trees,

how they let their leaves fall without sorrow,

how the earth accepts the return,

no protest, just softly rustling back to the ground.

I wonder if we, too, are supposed to give in softly,

Embrace our return to the soil.

There’s a trembling in my marrow,

a hum that grows louder each day.

The sun feels more distant,

fading like the names I used to remember.

Aging is the slow forgetting of once-known songs,

verses slipping from my tongue

while the melody lingers,

Half-remembered, half-forgotten.

I don’t fear the end,

but the slow drift into silence,

the moments when the body is present

but the soul feels absent.

Will I remember how to let go?

Will the final exhale feel like a homecoming

or a departure into nothing?

Maybe the bones know something

the mind never will,

maybe they ache with the knowledge

that one day,

they will rest.