Melancholy — a poem about the acceptance and forgiveness that comes with age

Melancholy

Age brings a softness—a shadowy shade
midway between darkness and light.
It paints the undersides of billowing clouds,
underscores laugh lines of tired eyes,
and chases away bleached-blonde highlights.

Swooping in and stealing time—
vultures with fluffy dove feathers.
They comfort even as they subtract life.

The melancholy becomes suitable and familiar—
a worn pair of jeans with the knees long gone.
We don't reach for the rush of fresh, unspoiled love.
We don't mourn our innocence or our trust.

But most of all, we forgive.
We cast doubt to the wind—
we live and let live.

And when our time comes,
they'll be able to say
that we left on good terms.
That we repaired all that shattered.