Here We Are, Aging Together, Just Like We Said We Would

Monday, July 16, 2018
For your birthday, we pretend 
prehistoric. I fill our apartment
with inflatable dinosaurs, scaly ice 
cream cake, and raw meat. 
You have always wanted 
a birthday just like this: carbon 
dated back 
to before humans 
decided to chew 
all sorts of things. We play pretend 
so well you can barely smell the plastic, 
or remember anything about outside
and the blood moon that hangs there, 
red and wanting 
to become 
a whole new animal in your eyes.
Time is passing. We can feel the second 
hand, gently carving 
new trails along our skin. 
I recently eroded the landscape 
of my body 
by choice, and you
drew a fresh map,
topographical and understanding.
My blood was outside
my body and you kept 
the carnivores at bay. 
This is what we’ve promised 
one another, to try and live
and live and live 
until the earth caves in. 
We have built a home
and the ceiling is so high
everything feels about to echo—
all the things we say
growing older, and quieter, and 
drifting further away. 
Monday, July 16, 2018