When I am grown,
or “mature” I will be the
woman with graying hair,
and a smile of photons
racing to reach your eyes.
Something magical in
my face that will keep gleaming
until death removes me
from the restraints of my
body.
I will be the woman who
have seen enough to become
an idea. I will sit on the
beached drift wood all day
and drink good vodka. I will
write poems about becoming
a real adult.
When I am old and grey,
when my hands show wear
and the skin around my eyes
serves as evidence of a youth
spent laughing; then I will
watch the sunrise in the summer.
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