Well, I kind of got this idea from a guy friend who is having trouble with 22 y/os who have crushes on him...and, he doesn't like them back. I've had troubles with younger and older men myself, and it is also relevant to me. I rewrote the ending like three times.
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I look at the pictures in the photo album.
They are not mine to have.
I look at the pictures in the photo album,
and grimace as I turn each page.
I do not like the lines in your face, the
wrinkles that look like molded peaches,
the blonde hair like dirty mushrooms.
From the heart of my poems, I have seen you
here before-discussing memoirs and smoky
mirrors. Your back is turned to me,
and at first I thought I might love you,
but you turned and gave me that sly, coy smile-
the smile of a black cougar with bitter teeth.
Teeth that gnash and teeth that bite,
swift words and war wounds.
My grandfather was in WWII-he made it out,
no thanks to you, I can tell you wouldn’t
care anyhow, your mind is on shadows,
shadows that wave and bend, nothing that is
relevant or real.
I try to discuss politics with you; your grin turns
into a hiss, a whisper of words you do not think
I would understand. I am no dummy.
You try to bat your eyelashes at me, I think to myself they
are fake as your fake ID, which you bought for
three hundred dollars when you could have waited
a few years when you came of age.
I told you there is nothing between us.
Your tears are bitter.
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