Two dykes scream then kiss. A beautiful sight. Not as voyeurism, but as a healing example. Follow the dykes. We'll live better.
Younger women feel colder to me. Granted, they're not looking my way. If they were, I wouldn't look back. I've had enough freaks in my life. Still, they seem glazed. Stares, pouts, postures. Skin tight but false.
Perhaps it's dimensional. Some Nijinsky cubist barrier. Anonymity allows for perusal. But they're worlds away.
Women my age remind me of my age. Can't complain. We share the same tongue. Cultural baggage. Our separate wing of the madhouse.
I find many of them beautiful. They made the transition. Others are like me -- vain, insecure, overcompensating. I should like them but don't. We're mutual imposters.
Drinking dims the glare somewhat. You alight but most often crash. A dull thud. Boring as porn.
My ancestors hit it hard. As have I. Their legacy's in my gut. Our minds grilled over time.
I see them in darker corners. Blended shadow smiles. They are less daring in retrospect. Late laughter drinks pissed away.
I've entered their time. Quieter than I imagined, but comfortable enough. This will change. We don't exit mellowly. Wild eyes, kicks, punches at air. Tension explodes near the grave.
It has nothing to do with toughness. We simply grab what we can on the way out. One more touch. A final taste. Everything expended before nothing consumes us. An unspoken joke cutting clean.
There are worse fates. I've read about a few.