I’m noticing the signs of ageing in my body, more so than ever before. The way my skin stretches and sags, the plump firmness of youth giving way to a soft, supple texture that calls to mind the rose-scented embrace of my grandmother’s lap. I’m seeing the lines and dark spots bloom across my face and spread down the length of my body, the radiantly smooth summer glow replaced with a dullness, a roughness that wasn’t there before. The sharp edges of my bones have become visible beneath my skin, like a submerged shipwreck emerging from a low tide, beautiful in a haunting way.

These milestones marking my time spent in this body are to be celebrated. I have never feared their arrival, holding them always as sacred in my heart, as friends that will continue to join me with each journey completed around the sun. Yet, now that I see them in the mirror, now that I feel them beneath my fingers, I find myself experiencing a sense of mourning. 

I don’t grieve the departure of my youth.

I grieve the absence of a lover to have enjoyed that youth with me.

As my body becomes less and less pliable, I ache for the surrender I’ve always wanted and rarely had. To truly indulge in this beautiful gift that I was given, to cherish the abundance of delicious skin and secret treasures that stay hidden from the common eye. I yearn to explore this beautiful body of mine with someone who possesses the patience, the keenness to slowly savour every inch of me, to take my hand and join me on a journey to unlock the many mysterious doorways of the sensual temple that remains overgrown and seldom visited. 

I fear that this temple may just disappear forever, lost in the mists of time, having never received devotees at the ornately adorned altar, only drop-ins from tourists and wandering monks.