When do these things shift I wonder? The pursuit of youth, the fear of death.

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We meet at your office and start to walk to the diner to have our first date. I look over at you mid-conversation and the summer evening light catches those first grey hairs sprinkled in your honey brown. When you’re under me in bed, after all the gin and tonics are gone, I see the lines, faint, starting to creep in near your eyes. None of us are children anymore. Fuck me again, beautiful man.