The dropping of the fresh, flesh, beauty veil
Like a cocoon reversal, where age builds and slowly covers
fresh, youthful, butterfly-ish gorgeousness.
The youthful beauty leaving
makes way for clarity and clear thought
You bow less often now at my feet, O Admirer
(although my feet do not show my age and are steadfastly, thankfully, still perfect)
I am pleased
that to some I am now invisible, less visible
Please look though me and past me as it is not you I long to communicate with.
Your arresting gaze
No longer holds me uncomfortably in its compliment.
I find that I am glad
(and sometimes a little bit sad)
But thankful for the pleasure of youthful beauty dropping away.