The years unfurl like pages in the wind,
Soft lines etched deeper by the sun’s hand,
Yet now the glass screen offers a new light,
Where fingers trace not wrinkles but desire.
Silver threads of time cross in digital webs,
No longer bound by clocks or season’s turn,
They search for what was lost or never found,
In the shadowed halls of memory’s rooms.
The pulse quickens like it did in younger days,
But the beat is wiser, more tender in its quest,
Seeking not just flesh but kindred souls,
In this late spring of heart’s renewal.
Here, age is but a word whispered by clocks,
And love, a poem written on the skin of years,
Each line a promise that the world still turns,
In the soft embrace of twilight’s gentle dawn.