Small Batch Poems (Part 2)

51

He asked me where I saw myself in ten years,

twenty years,

thirty.

When I’m retired,

when I have more ailments than coffee cups,

and when I know more ghosts than people.

His eyes had yet to grow foggy,

his hands not speckled,

and his legs not veined.

I knew we had much time left together on this earth

with many moments left to live,

so I questioned why he was asking so soon?

Unless he wanted to be my ten years,

my twenty years,

my thirty.

When we’re retired,

when we’re taking our medications with coffee,

and when our friends have all departed.

Our lenses thick,

hands arthritic,

and legs stiff.

Using the time we have left on this earth,

living the few moments we have left to live,

before it all ends too soon.

56

Under these stars,

I could have sworn we painted them ourselves.

Hung our hearts

next to the bright one in the north

to guide us home every night.

Lock your fingers in mine

and look up to the sky with me.

Let’s find our way back

before the sun rises

and that beautiful painted path is gone.

125

He tells me that

that's not how I should be loved.

That the man who I currently long for,

desire,

and hope to build a life with

is not loving me

the way I am designed to be loved.

I ask him how it should be, then.

What it should look like

so I can keep my eyes peeled.

What it should sound like

so I can keep my ears open.

I ask if there’s a book for it,

a manual,

a compass to guide my wandering heart.

He stays silent.

I ask him to show me

and he takes my hand.