And when I say I'm getting old don't you look at my
wrinkled skin or at the grays
growing at the temples

You look in my eyes and the terror
of time walking past
and I
not being able to ever
catch up with the I that was once.

You look in my eyes when they see the woman
staring back from the glass,
and yet not knowing
how or when
she became the blurry shadow of a happy but
long forgotten other I.