the skin on my knees stretched 
like the fabric of overused trousers, 
sitting cross legged, like I used to. 

As if, the skin on my elbows sagged 
like the arms of a fifth-day jumper, 
crossing my arms, like I used to.

As if, the only difference between 
my skin and the fabric was 
the creases of time that 
can be washed off of one, 
but not the other.