I met you a decade ago, when I was first learning to love the human body.
You could work my knotted voice and my sprained thoughts, thus easing tensions that I was born with.
I was drawn to you. You were older, you were beautiful.
But things have changed; now, you seem childish.
You glorify sedation and fantasy, as if these alone will complete you.
Yours is a storybook image of life, a poetic shelter which, fast and deliberately, you hang from.
With haunting regret, I watch you grow into a stranger. You were once my unparalleled companion.
Even still, your eyes have never been fairer. I still recognise my old friend in your changed, inelegant motions.