it means we fucking lived

i see it in the faces of people i have known for years – age, time. 

gray hairs and lines, scars and sturdier limbs. 

i see it in my own face looking thinner, still me but weathered like the boards peeling paint on the old houses i can’t stop interrupting road trips to photograph and write poems about while a lover waits for me in the car. 

voices sound a little harder and i hear it in the tattoo shop banter and how we shake our heads at young kids trying hard to look goth on the corner but there but for the grace of god go i and all. 

girls i knew became women became mommas and they inspire me with strength and their it girl manicures that don’t really hide the bear claws. 

i watch people pushing forty pushing fifty still trying to throw it back, trying to hold court as a scene king this scene king that and its like yeah ok i guess. 

im not afraid of getting old. 

it means that we were alive, together. 

it means we fucking lived.