you haven't aged a day

because, my dearest,
(and yes, you still are)
i went down the list
of everything i want and
i’ve already done it all.
it seems, in the short
distance between your
house and mine, there are
a thousand littered memories
of french kissing devils
from the back of my teeth,
picnic blankets and of
replacing my pains with
many more agonies.
in the small distance
this horrid town spans
i have managed to carve
our initials in every tree;
i’ve done it all with you
and remember it, too,
despite my adamant trying
to be rid of the taste.

and now you see me
from across the room
but i’ve been ignoring your
scent since you first arrived.
you smile because nothing
has changed for you -
your hair is a few inches
longer than i had liked it;
your face is cleaner and
eyes much less tired. but me,
my skin had grown
accustomed to you,
so it is different now
and every cell is working
not to care. it is an
all-hearts-on-deck ordeal
to keep my hand from
taking yours, now.

i feel you from across the room,
and your jaw looks like it’s
never been pressed against
my body, though it has.
i’m sure i look like you
are written all over me
and i’m sure i’d be ashamed if
i wasn’t still so in love with you.