She told me getting old was experience shaping my bones. And not with my blood like the Colorado, but like Michelangelo with a chisel. A thousand footsteps marching before me. Softer than a platoon should make, like ghosts. Their footsteps never touched the ground.
Following paths that disappear before you feels like grasping air between your fingertips. It’s there of course, but only after you let go.
Shaping bones happens slower now. The way thick glass cracks. Not all at once. The way memories form. Or maybe more like the way I forget dreams. Hold on tight she said. Don’t let go. I thought she meant don’t wake up.
Because I didn’t know I could be kissed like that, and forgot for just one second what happens next. It’s always a whisper at first. But she screams.
Experience slows you down. You move slower than you should. You ache longer but you feel it less. Numbness feels like cracking bones beneath your skin. You rub it raw trying to wake it up. But only she can feel it.
Disappearing footsteps creating echos.
Outlasting even her. Cracking my bones like a chisel.