Untitled 5-11-17

Everytime she says

"I want to grow old with you"

Every razor moves further

away from my wrists

Each slipknot unties itself

I find myself staring at

ledges on tall buildings less

Her words are sorcery

She turns my days ahead

into candle flames

What once looked like a

child's birthday cake

Now resembles a pagan

altar in a house of mirrors

I want to feel her wrinkled

fingers through my gray beard

Draw envy for our teenage

infatuation that lasted decades

Senior discounts on movie dates

already smelling like sex

Old t-shirts woven with

memories and tears

Shoulders on which we've cried

so fearlessly

I want to grow old with her

This poem is to Death

To let him know why I keep

cancelling our plans