You will forget this
In the sigh of a better morning.
You will forget that I held you close to me
Clinging to your sweet innocence, the best of me
Present in you, imagining that we could be this way
That we could always be.
Later–perhaps as she does–
You will hate me. Hate the sternness
of my character:
My reluctant smile, my unease,
my penchant for mistakes.
Perhaps, like her, you will hate
my darkness most of all.
But for now I have you in my grasp.
I can hold you to me and your eyes
have not yet discerned
My million imperfections.
You do not know that we grow old
You still believe that we will be this way
That we will always be.