I Want...

My fingers trace your face,

Like they are reading a map,

On the journey to wholeness.

Finding each route, and line,

Like they will lead my,

Parched and barren soul,

To clear,

Cool,

Water.

My hands fit perfectly,

Like they were made,

To caress your jaw.

Thumbs sweeping over cheek bones,

Like a nomad crossing mountains.

And in the valley of your experience,

They find dips and lines,

Age made into flesh.

Crows feet, and frown lines,

Smile lines too.

But I can tell that lines around your mouth,

Come from performance,

From expectation,

With some exaltation mixed inside.

And the lines on your brow,

Come from hardship,

From wanting,

From weariness.

As though in your quiet moments,

You can think of only that,

Which has made you bleed.

The grey in your hair,

Reminds me of morning sun reflected,

On the sea.

Shining,

Endless,

With hidden wonder just beneath.

But in your head,

There lay monsters.

But also,

Miracles.

I want to watch the frost catch you,

Turning beard and hair and eyebrows white.

I want to make sure you have smile lines,

Deeper than the lines of disdain,

Scrawled across your brow.

I want to hear you laugh.

I want to drown in the sound of it.

I want to watch your strong back weaken,

With age,

With experience.

I want to hold your hand,

Feel your grip go weak,

Knuckles swollen with arthritis,

Knees aching with protest,

Over a life so full,

Your joints just,

Can’t,

Contain,

It.

And maybe this all seems morbid.

To want to witness,

The decline of life in you.

But my love you’ll never be alone in it,

I’ll be beside you,

Dying too.