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
