Rocking chairs are sweet

Sweet grandmas who love hansel and gretel 

Sweet millennials who love old things

I, 

was given a rocking chair

(aptly, I think)

In my rocking chair I stare at parallel scars on hands 

Smooth skin in a place that diverges in old

Aged eyes

Aged eyes?

Mine are neither sharp nor fierce

But imploring

Some call them out, 

forsake them for their forever sort-of-stability

They are there

And they do not look away.

Now I can see the ketchup stains on my shirt

The seams are ripped and the seems are ripped

I am begging my rocking chair 

to be loved and be 

still.