When I see a woman I can be drawn to,
it's that I still honour her physical beauty,
that beauty can kindle in me a longing
for nakedness, for the act of love.
Is it still Me,
Is it still Me,
Or am I a dirty man
whose desires flow in unexpected channels?
Tell me—
to be charmed by a woman,
to want her,
to touch the silk of her hair,
to kiss and hold her close,
to stand open to courtship, with her blessing.
Does it matter that I can still drift into reverie with desire for a woman?
That I want to crown a candlelit dinner with her, on a quiet evening?
Why does it weigh less than this: I crave friendship, yes—
but I crave intimacy too, and the pleasure of flesh?
Is it still
Me?
Or have I become some pitiful relic of a man
who must confess his moment has passed?
# Is It Still Me? I don't recognize myself anymore, the woman who stares back from the mirror is a stranger wearing my face. When did the laughter lines become valleys? When did these hands—that once held softness—grow so rough, so uncertain? I search for myself in old photographs, that girl with fire in her eyes, unafraid to leap into tomorrow. But she's gone now, dissolved into the fog of years, into the weight of all those small surrenders. They say we change, that time remakes us— cell by cell, dream by dream. But this feels like erasure. Sometimes I catch a glimpse— a gesture, a word, a sudden laugh— and think: yes, there I am. Then it slips away again, like water through these weathered fingers, and I'm left asking the mirror: *Is it still me underneath?* Or have I become someone else entirely, wearing the ghost of my own name?
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