It hurts to grow old, he said
with a hint of pain in his eyes,
and looked at his trembling hands
maybe was trying to recognise something.
“Movement is tiring” he said
to bake a cake in the eye of the storm,
To see the same souls and faces
in all the people, in all the forms.
I wonder if it gets better
for they say everything does,
People generalise though
And when they do,
do they think of us?
Maybe it’s more about losing
than to fit in,
All the storms took things from us
But I miss the spot
We used to sit in.