Older Than Sin

I’m older than sin, but sin still knows my name, nods when I pass like we shared a drink and never spoke of it again.

My knees creak louder than my conscience, my back files formal complaints, and mirrors have the audacity to remember everything I’d rather not face.

I’ve paid dues in bad decisions, compounded interest in regret, earned wisdom the hard way— retail price, no coupons, no returns accepted.

I’ve survived trends, outrun my patience, buried a few versions of myself with shallow graves and deeper sighs.

Don’t mistake the gray for surrender— it’s just smoke from a fire that’s learned how to burn slower, hotter, and without apology.

I no longer chase meaning; if it wants me, it knows where to find me— probably sitting down, because standing too long is optional now.

I’m older than sin, and twice as tired, but still dangerous in small, deliberate doses— the kind that smiles, then tells the truth and lets it land where it may.

Yeah. Older than sin. Still here. Still breathing. Still unimpressed.