It pains me, a bit
to think about the possibilities
of life if you were here,
if I could watch your smile
bloom upon your face
see the signs of laughter brewing
just after I’ve said something silly.
I’d cook you dinner
and blush with happiness
when you teased me for my
utter lack of skill
and after you would make hot cocoa
for our movie marathon
and we’d have punch drunk discussions
on the philosophy of psychopathic murder
for dessert.
While the credits rolled
your eyes would droop
and your head, heavy with sleep
would rest sweetly on my shoulder.
Would I kiss you, then?
Softly, so as not to ruin the mood?
Or fierce and biting with the breaking
of long-held restraint?
Would you invite me to your bed?
And if you did, would I accept?
Or would I stroke your hair
and kiss you a gentle goodnight
at your bedroom door?
Would we grow old together,
counting wrinkles as they form,
marking the days with
ridiculous anniversaries:
first kiss, first fight, first joint bout of pyromania?
Or would it end, perish early
like so many things are wont to do?
Would you die first?
Or would I?
And when we were gone
would we have anyone
to tell stories about us
and the crazy things we no doubt said and did?
Would I ever tell you this poem was about you?
Maybe.
Maybe, if you were here, I could.