I hope you will be dapper in fine ties and tweed jackets. Our beginnings will sound like the smoothing of suits and the rustle of silk dresses. We will meet with clacking heels and tapping feet in a smoky, moody jazz club. It will be the first and the last.
But mostly, I just hope we will be in love. Maddening, complete love that they write movie scripts about. Love that drives grown men crazy and causes the stoic to shed tears. Ours will be a love story. I know you will call me beloved in coarse whispers, and I will call you mine.
I’m sorry for breaking hearts before you, and I know you stepped on a few yourself before we met. I hope the gentleness and tenderness we show to one another sweeps across all those we meet, shedding kindness every step of the way.
I await your crooked smile in the crook of my heart, for Saturday evening slow songs and Sunday morning banana pancakes. I miss the thought of you and the memories which have yet to be knit together. I have nostalgia for a future not yet lived, a man I have not yet known.
Yet…I know you like the twilight misses the morning, with this inescapable hitch in my breath. I see you in deja vu and rearview mirrors, the view from rainy window panes, the sideways stares from across the way and in between my wayward thoughts. You are the uneasy clench of my fists, the shudder in my backbone and my nervous lip bite. You are quiet, quite. I know you, but not you. I know the shape of you, like a shadow impressed in concrete. You have yet to come into color.
When you do, remember me; my smile stained on your sunsets and the hiccups in your laugh. Warm breezes and cool night dew, the beat to your rhythm…remember where we might begin, and I’m yours.