Corey’s new column, Little Black Book, runs Tuesdays at 9am. Tune in for creative writing on queer life.

Age seems to me a strange thing.

I am told that I am young –
Too young to expect to find love,
Too young to know what to do with life –
And, in some ways, I agree

After all, I cannot help but wonder
Seeing an older man at a restaurant or a bar
What we could possible have in common
His life so different from mine

And yet I feel my time spinning.

I can recall what it was like
To have never been kissed
To have never traveled far
To have been told I’d soon miss childhood

And now youth has come and gone
And this adulthood in its place
Is a strange, cold beast
Awaiting its own death

And then I get asked about children.

Do I want them now?
Would I ever want them?
And I think, maybe someday
When I’m old and gray and pine not for sex

When I have nothing left to live for,
Nothing left to accomplish or seek,
Nor the strength to declare life not worth living
Instead bringing another life under my traveled wing

Age seems to me strange thing,
The future dead, my youth deceased.