My icy hands are warmed by yours,
When winter comes to claim them;
“You have no blood,” you say to me,
“Take my hand, it will suffice.”
The split loose-leaf lines of your face,
bunch all over mine as well;
My balloon-like paunch is your
Pillow at night, my skin,
The blanket we fight over
While we are asleep at night;
Your arthritic hands crack
A samba beat for me when
You make lunch, just so I can eat.
These spots on my hands are where
You first kissed me, before we kissed
On the lips and sealed the deal,
Dotted the I’s and crossed the T-s.
These droplets of chocolate
Love, were all the sweet we craved.
Your graying hair - confection -
As we braved the diabetes
Of our relationship.
My burgeoning scalp pushing
Through trampled grass of my hair.
I become the wishing charm
You rub whenever you need a wish.
We are bound tight to each other by
Wilting shadows of young eyes;
Like ivy clinging for dear life;
Your infirmities are mine; mine, yours.
I nightmare, and you awaken,
In a deeply set panic.
Love, in this age, my dear, is not
The labor everyone thinks.
It is a concoction: (one part fool,
One part artistry, one part mule)
That allows us to withstand
Many things, replenishing
With the joy that we both set out
To garner at the outset.