Some men fear,
the familiarity of a woman.
Women to them are for “fucking,”
for showing off.
Time wipes away the shine,
which they anticipate,
as the end of their prime.
But some understand,
that familiarity is the magic of women.
They can look on,
as two reunited friends giggle again as girls,
Telling stories about the boys,
who were once on their heels,
barely catching a European train,
that the beauty they were given,
more hopeful men,
birthed a duty,
that echoes well beyond,
the waning light of the ego’s fearful campfire.