we will not decay
i'll catch you at fifty,
divorced or in love,
drunken hand on my thigh
fitting just like a
glove.
I hope I can meet you
again when we're old, over a beer, with soft eyes and nothing but smiles over
the rough but distant past that all but disappears while we laugh and share,
united again for just a short period of time, as if every insignificant
occurrence has led to us together and complete, even for one more moment... I
think I'm in love with your soul.
* * * * * * * * * * * * *
* * * * * * * * * *
we used to be crooked
together
septum ring misaligned,
hold on, you’d say,
and with your black pit
eyes locked tightly to mine, I’d add a baby to the end of that.
(but only in my mind.)
one hand on my cheek, the
other straightening me out.
(I always knew you found
the perfect balance when you’d bite your lip and smile light. that and the world
around us would start spinning faster and faster but you and I would remain
still and constant and encased in an orb of something that existed and will
only exist between our honeycomb souls.)
remember how we would put
both our rings crooked and wait until someone said something? no one ever did—
you were the only one. still are.
stop by sometime. it’s
been a while and I’ve forgotten your scent.
promise me you’ll bite
your lip and I’ll promise not to let this go.
