I worry
if he still loves the texture of my skin
and if theres a place for me if it changes again
weathered in fine lines
my mother wouldn’t have survived
stubborn greys, ritually dyed
but I’ve come to find - I kind of like
I want a love to get by with
something a trip to jones park doesn’t need to fix
baby, don’t drive your weary mind
into where the fault lies
rage is all you’ll ever find
sitting pretty in the sand again
watching the sun go down
no place to go, not on the bend
hard to see the beauty
past the shadow of broken men
