And I like the music turned down low.
I have less appetite for small talk,
And I like books that are short but truthful.
I love you but I don’t want to own you.
When you’re gone, I will miss you
But not too much; I have my writing.
I start shows on Netflix and abandon them.
I look up at the sky and am transfixed.
I look also at the banyan tree’s roots
On some nights while going home;
The roots hanging long and still,
Like a sleeping woman’s hair
Hanging off of the edge of the bed.
I have less and less to say to people.
I tune into silence with alacrity,
Like it’s a preferred radio station.
I am casting off old darlings
One by one; sugar, sound, drama.
“Well, dear, life is a casting off.
It was always that way.”
I remember those lines
From an Arthur Miller play.
Am I getting older and wiser,
Or merely older and colder?
How to be sure?
Maybe I don’t want to be sure;
I’ll cast off that darling too;
The need to feel sure.
Do I need anything?
No, my dear.
Well, maybe a cup of tea,
If you’re having some too.
Warm, not piping hot.
And no sugar.