the numbers in my passport
are printed in arial bold,
the ones in my memory –
in subtle italics.
the veins on my forearms,
like blue subterranean rivers.
the lines crossing my forehead
evoke cave paintings.
there's nothing beautiful about aging,
nothing faster than time,
nothing shorter than memory.
I don't know how much time
remains for me,
but every time I start the engine,
I reflect on the kilometers
left behind.