There was a time when mornings
unfolded slowly,
Italy’s cobblestones beneath me,
France’s light brushing my skin.
Days filled with yoga,
pedicures, unhurried walks
with my dog,
and sleep like the world owed me
every dream.
I woke late, lingered
on the patio with a book,
the sun warm on my shoulders,
time, a current
I drifted upon.
Back then, I knew
the luxury of details—
shaved legs, pressed jeans,
a dab of perfume
before slipping out the door.
Polished shoes, organized freezers,
savoring each bite.
Marvel movies flickered in dark rooms,
heroes cast in the shadows
of my own daydreams.
Mystique, the shapeshifter,
seamless in her transformations,
slipping between forms,
blurring the lines
between hero and villain.
What I wouldn’t give
for that power, to bend
the rules of who I am,
to shed this skin,
from time to time
step into another.
But in this world,
these gifts seem far
from reach,
to heal, to defy age,
to remain ageless
as the years carve lines
into everyone else,
and I wait my turn.
Top photo: Bigstock
