As much as I feel 23 inside,
or 17, or 32, like you,
I live in fact, and I don’t want to hide
from changes that with every year accrue.
So I will face my face, accept I’ve lost
much elasticity and useful fat.
My bones are holey, and my nights are tossed;
I’m drawn to sunny windows like a cat.

But basking in these revelations makes
me also vow to not assess me weak.
I’ll move with caution and avoid the breaks,
but keep on moving. I have passed my peak,
but winding down’s not steep and not a drop.
I breathe. I stretch. I walk. And I won’t stop.