You notice it first at the hairline—
silver threads woven where black once ruled.
You dye it, hide it,
but it reappears, sharp as a memory,
uninvited and honest.

Your birthdays are quieter now.
No more glitter, just shadows
and the hush of rooms where
people no longer ask your age—
they assume it.

The babies you bounced now call you “Ma.”
Their feet are heavier than yours,
their voices deeper.
You nod, smile, but it stings—
like the world moved forward without asking.

At the store, the girl behind the counter
calls you ma’am with sweet indifference.
You thank her,
but a little part of you folds inside
and tucks itself away.

And along comes him.
Too young to know better,
too bold to care.
He says your name
like it’s a secret only he’s allowed to know.
And he doesn’t flinch at your years.

He sees you.
Not the fine lines or fading edges,
but the full, wild woman
you once were—still are.
You don’t remember breathing
while he looked at you.

You laugh too loud when he’s near.
You wear lipstick that dares.
You check the mirror
twice before going out—
and hate yourself for it later.

He asks you what you’re doing later.
Not in passing.
Not politely.
Like he already knows
you’ve imagined him touching you
on nights you swore you were done with wanting.

You tell yourself he’s a child
playing with fire.
That you are the flame
he doesn’t yet know how to fear.
But God—how you want to burn.

You dream of him,
and wake up ashamed.
You pray to forget the sound
of his laugh,
the way he says your name
like it’s something he wants to taste.

You avoid him—once, twice—
but desire is clever.
It finds you in the grocery aisle,
in your phone,
in the dress you wore when you were 29.

This cannot be love.
It is hunger.
Loneliness dressed in lust.
A woman’s last rebellion
before the world forgets she was ever wanted.

Still…
You linger in his gaze.
You let the moment.
Because even if you walk away,
you need to know—
just once—
that someone still looked at you
and wanted to stay.