The night goes quiet after twenty-five, <br />as though there are rings in your skin <br />as well as on your finger. <br /> <br />With creping around drowsy eyes, <br />like the creases in timeworn love-letters, <br />there is cause to wonder why <br />no one told you that the way <br />you used to do the usual things <br />would cease to be adorable <br />when you rounded a certain corner. <br />Now is when you deign to paint <br />your nails red, but somehow <br />it lacks dignity. <br /> <br />Once, hisses and hollers <br />from passing cars at twilight <br />were hot mosquito-prick stings. <br />Now, they’re a welcome sort of infestation, <br />an itch that sings for a scratch, <br />and yet, there is something untoward <br />about the ones who dare to look now, <br />as though their intention is unclean; <br />a theft within a rape. <br /> <br />Old impressions on naked fingers <br />arouse the strangest of animals, <br />and something falls away, <br />like the slow strip of a banana peel, <br />full of freckles and other blemishes <br />leaving something unholy in the gazer’s grasp. <br /> <br />The slippery shame <br />in coveting the seasoned woman <br />forces all the choirboys into hiding, <br />though their intent remains obvious, <br />despite the righteous robes. <br />As long as it is unspoken, <br />it is a myth, a parable, <br />a story for poorly lit places.<br /><br />Tara Teeling<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/after-25/
