More Than a Temporary Traveller

You worry that you are old
in your blind little spot of dark.
You worry that
no one would have you
even though you are already had.
You lie, eyes open to the night
as though you were ill,
an illness, a thing.
This will be it, you think.
You will spend nights awake,
ears buzzing into the silence,
and other nights asleep without memory,
and then there will be no nights.
There is no pattern to navigate,
no migration to trace the why and how.
You will be older still,
and older.
To be younger and more wanted
would only mean more would have you,
and even then,
when your thighs were tight
and days and nights were long affairs,
you worried that you were old
in your blind little spot of dark.
You knew the truth,
that no one would have you, not once,
that no one would touch you ever, not truly,
not in a way that defied the body,
denied the body,
dove beyond it to prove
you were, indeed,
more than a temporary traveller.