overgrown

what if the future can’t be promised
and i can’t make you love me

what if we wake up at the same lonely hour
in different lonely beds

what happens when we look in the mirror,
or out into the world,
expecting to see a glimpse of what once was a comforting reflection
a gaze that reaffirmed us in every sense of the word
a gaze that once told me it was all worth it;
what happens when i look out and see only myself

what happens to the memories we once made
in that little cabin on the lake
where we once remained so evergreen,
fading further into lingering apathy
until you have become my favorite stranger

where will you be when i am thirty five
on a plane, on a ranch, in a house
surrounded by others who are not me?
where will i be when you are forty-something,
on the ground, in the city, in a home of my own making?

whatever happens and who ever it may be
i hope she makes a better bride for you than me