"I'm Sorry I Put Them Words in Your Mouth..."

[psalm_onethirtyone]

Um. This is posting day, apparently. >_> Poetry this time. (I like writing love poems. Shhh.)

When we get old we don’t want more things to fill the house,
my mother says. I know
more certainly than I know most things
that my house, filled with every gift you ever gave me, is
the place I am happiest to come back to.
I think I am trying to fill your house with me, with pretty glass
for your table, with sweet-smelling soap
for your hands
and books I think you’ll read. I think
I am hoping to make your house
the place you most want to be when you are
missing me. I think
I am forgetting that you
love less tangible presents:
when we cook dinner together, or I let you take photographs of me, or
you don’t expect the letter I mail from school.
I think you’re not made for glass and soap:
you want kisses and the gold from bees instead
(but you are certainly
not going to refuse books).

The trouble is that I forget.
I forget and court you with objects
and it surprises me to tears when they
don’t make you as happy as they’d make me.

My mother says,
When we get old, we just want most of our days to be good ones.
We’re maybe quieter and we don’t walk
as freely as we used to.
We’d rather share a piece of chocolate than get a fancy bracelet.
I know
more certainly than I know
most things
that if we nourish ourselves from the same plate some afternoon,
if we get slow and fat together,
even my material heart would be satisfied with one hundredth part
of what I bring you in my forgetful moments.

When we get old, my mother says,
mostly we hope for love.
I think
we might be old now. Or maybe
we don’t have to be old at all.

Comments

[rainbowjehan.livejournal.com]

akfkasfksal; I am just thinking about it! Maybe!