Deprivation

The light plays with his hair, running its fingers through it.

I wish I could.

Pathetic.

Someone cracks a joke and his face cracks a smile.

Boyish grin.

Dimples.

Little boy stuck in an aging carcass

Marching resolutely towards a mid-life crisis.

Rounder than it used to be.

Softer and harder too.

Squishy yet solid.

Wrinkles make the first appearance around his eyes

like shy children peaking their heads out from behind Mother’s skirt.

Tentative.

Delicate.

The scent of him:

Floral body wash left by a girlfriend,

Piny aftershave,

Mint.

Aromas that weave into the fabric of him.

Next to him, I sit.

Imagine my own aging body pressed into him,

Breathing him into the fabric of me.

There’s no reason why.

Why this man and not another?

This sagging flesh beside me

Should not set my skin on fire

When he reaches for the chips and brushes my arm.

But there it is.

Nothing is ever dearer than the prize not won.

–Kylie Goetz

When Kylie was five, she wanted to be either a nun or a lounge singer. Luckily (for the church and lounge patrons everywhere) she discovered a love for storytelling around the same age.  This eventually translated into a B.A in theatre from Florida State University and a MA in creative writing from Macquarie University.  You can buy her book here and follow her Word of the Day Poetry Project

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