45 years, 45's.

free verse

Houses, hills, clouds, sun, sky and a car in motion. I took the picture.

At 45,

I grew up.

I realised it because:

I cleanse my face up without any drama, every evening

and I remove the dirty part of the day

hoping my soul draws from there.

I sprinkle my legs, still holding,

with essential oils and caffeine cream:

a youth potion,

as you have to shore up

a cornerstone

but you are aware you were wrong with the necessary doses of concrete,

and you are aware they are going to chip away at.

With patience, I fold T-shirts and

towels and sheets.

I dry clothes scented with unlikely softeners,

without blinking an eye.

My daily becoming is a not-letting-space-to-innocence-or-recklessness

routine.

Because I grew up and I have to honour the commitments I took with myself

and if the counterpart, precisely me,

fail,

my synallagma will be null.

Nice revenge

after having discovered to be grown up at 45.

In my shadowed forest, I did not meet any beast,

as the instincts were trimmed (even if they still were not aware of that).

I did not meet any unexpected guide.

I look within myself to understand

there was still strength left,

mighty strength to accept the sorrow

and start again for being and doing.