80
I hope by the time I’m 80
I’d have written a million notes to you
Pieces I’d read to myself in secret
And feel the passion fan my youth to flames
Septuagenarian
I hope to your features, I’m no alien
I hope your body still yells my name
I hope your fire never stops coursing my veins
Even at sixty
Still kiss me as you did at sixteen
And that you caress my wrinkles
Like you did my cheekbones.
And at fifty
I hope you keep singing me serenades
Your breath on my face
As you contort into complex shapes
May we be together at forty
With three kids off to college
While we dread the silence
We had claimed we missed
I hope to love you even more at thirty
Through midlife crisis and our growing family
To fulfil your cravings
While you cradle my babies
And as we swear the oath in the dusk of your twenties
In your father’s tiny lawn, where he swears you were conceived
I hope you can clearly see
That I’m nothing if you don’t love me.
Copyright © Priscillia Efoghe | Year Posted 2022
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