Future..!

I’m telling you I can’t predict the future.
But I know that his voice reminds me
of nostalgic songs playing one Saturday
afternoon with their accompanying
slow dances in living room and in his eyes
I see ocean painted walls decorated
with picture frames of our love coalescing
into something grander than we could
ever imagine.

Something out of storybooks because
what we have is real. I’m telling you
I can’t predict the future.

But I know that I wouldn’t mind
the humdrum of the early evening
to start off with his footsteps at the door
heading straight to the kitchen that smells
of freshly baked lasagna and hello kisses.

I want to trace his face when I’m half lulled
to sleep by the sounds of his heartbeat
and I want breakfast served with his laughter
from across the dining table.

I can’t predict the future, but his touches
make me think of the pitter patter
of rain against the window, a backdrop
to a scene of legs tangled on the couch
and a mess of buttered popcorn adorning
the floor and our fingers.

I think of a bad comedy film that was hardly
seen because we spent the last hour
whispering secrets and making plans
for tomorrow.

I think of brushing against each other
in the kitchen as he tries to make a tower
out of pancakes and I bellied
with laughter - and he comes to poke my nose
with his caked fingers.
I can’t predict the future, but there’s
something beautiful about socks sprawled
on the carpet, grocery lists, two toothbrushes,
and a laundry filled with plaid.

 
There’s something wondrous about being
dressed in all promises and affection.
Chasing each other into tomorrow
and the next day and so on.
Fighting but making up for the wounds.
Finding each other over and over again
because even though we’ve landed already,
we still haven’t finished exploring. Choosing
to stay.

I can’t predict the future, but I know
that he is love - the kind that defies
the dictionary term because he isn’t
cookie-cutter perfect, and I don’t want him
to be.

I want him in all his wide-eyed,
boisterous self. I want his sleepy sighs
and quiet too.
All his flaws.
All his loving. I want the weight of his love
to press tenderly against my chest,
and mine to press against his chest.
I want even the bickering and dreary days
because I know having the lights off is still
better than an empty room.

 
We can still turn them on - we always will.
I can’t predict the future, but I do know
that love stays - and love is him and he is love.