Autobiography no. 4

There have been moments when I forget myself
and I seem as human as the face in my mirror,
but just as suddenly the sensation passes
while you pull a plastic clasp from your hair
as if you were releasing the dam on a river.
You are too young for me
but while your hair dances down your shoulders
you are older than the canopy of rainforests,
more ancient and formidable than a statue
carved into the heart of a mountain.

After you were satisfied and I was tired
you asked me if I would write a poem about your body in the lamplight
and I told you that I would, although it was a lie.
Even this is not about you.