I was young once
running hard
as soon as my feet hit the ground.
Now I look in the mirror
and the lines on my forehead surprise me.
Crow’s feet I was expecting
or maybe smile lines
if I was lucky
but I suspect that whenever it was
the lines showed up
something else left—
the part of me that could sleep all night
the part of me that preferred
a cold beer or a whiskey shot
over coffee
and lived hard—
the part of me without you.