
Death in Love
When you're young
and the woman in your hands
is young,
you're provoked
by the life in her skin;
in the muscles under her skin.
You can smell life
in the sweet perfume
of her sweat,
in her breath,
sweet perfume
that can make you dizzy.
You can sense life
in the jittery convulsions
of her reaction to every
new touch and sensation.
And you feel young and alive
and jolted by excitement
every time you come near her.
But the older you get,
the older
you grow lulled
by the lazy response
of her flesh to your touch,
lulled by the numb response
of your own nerves to her flesh,
by the sluggish torpor
of her muscles;
the souring perfume
of her sweat;
of her tears;
the souring smell
of her old guts
belching out air.
And it's a curse,
because getting older
doesn't make you
like being with an old woman
any more than you did
when you were young.
It's worse, really,
because it lacks even
the thrill of novelty
or the forbidden.
She's just old,
and she reminds you
that you're old
and that your old shell
but that its life
is almost gone.
But nothing's worse
than being old
and holding youth in your hands,
even youth that's
thrilled by the novelty of you.
Because you can still
smell youth's sweetness,
feel the spring of muscles
under her taut skin,
but you know it isn't yours.
You're not sharing in it
but are feeding off it
like some kind of vampire.
And you wonder
what the point is,
what the point
of going on living,
the point of loving,
the point of touching.
And all your instincts,
your training,
have made you too afraid
to pull the trigger
and end it yourself,
to take responsibility
that nature has abdicated
into your own trembling,
weakening hands.
studying them,
wondering what they are,
why you can't make them
do what you want them to do.
You stare down at your hands
and you realize
that even your own hands
And you look up from your hand
into the mirror
and you see a face
that you recognize,
a face that you've been
staring at for your entire life,
for eternity,
and you remember
that the face is yours,
but you have no idea
who you are anymore.
And the person you once were
who had any kind of cohesiveness
or connection to himself
like the native
of some alien planet
you visited long ago
in another lifetime.
That's what it's like to be 40
Jesus Christ, you look better
than my brother.
He just graduated law school.
That's the curse
I'm talking about:
What you're looking at
isn't real,
none of it.
You do smell kind of different
from younger guys.
Their sweat is electric.
It's scary,
not so much fun sometimes.
I mean, your muscles
are still there and everything,
but it's different.
It's mellower.
I feel like I can relax.
I don't know if you remember,
but it's not so much fun
being young
and freaked out about everything
all the time.
It doesn't change.
Haven't you even
been listening to me?
I know 14-year-old girls
who sound like you do.
I bet you sounded exactly
the same when you were 14,
although you'd have something
different to be depressed about,
'cause you wouldn't be old.
Old?
I'm 40.
You said it.
back 20 years,
and you'd still be complaining
about how you miss
being old again.
- I'm not old.
- No.
You're depressed.
Being old's
got nothing to do with it.
I'll tell you the worst part
about getting old.
You said you weren't.
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"Death in Love" Scripts.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2021. Web. 8 Mar. 2021. <https://www.scripts.com/script/death_in_love_6575>.