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

and bitter

and fade.

You still believe that we will be this way


That we will always be.

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