To my future self I have a few questions to start.
Did you fill the lines on your face with botulism and tar?
Did you sail the world real real far?
Did you marry someone real bizarre?
Finally learn to drive those flying cars?
Did you meet your goals?
Did you heal your soul?
And do you still fear aging?
I fear that death is paging me before you get a chance to write back.
Maybe you kept your long hair to make the older men stare,
Maybe you cut it short,
Maybe these things don’t matter at all
And, the ball is truly in your court.
Odd how your worth is drained
When you age like a fine wine stained
On a silken tablecloth.
Fading with your beauty
Even though most things are celebrated for their antiquity,
Like the fine wine before it was dropped
Your age shouldn’t be treated like some spot,
Or commodity,
Or something to be sold And bought!
Your greying hair is a river
Telling people how long you’ve been surfing on the wave of time
Although rivers aren’t big enough to surf
Your guess is as good as mine why young women suddenly lose their worth When they’re dancing with time
To my future self I hope,
You weren’t the one to choke
On meaningless regimes
To repair your busted esteem
For men who would never look at you before.
I hope you’re instead kind and thoughtful and hold the door, for women who simply want to be more than pretty.