I want to grow old with you.
Maybe not as lovers do, but as old friends,
chess mates maybe.
It might seem strange that I do not know the ins and outs of chess
but I am certain to with you by my side.
See, old friend, 50 years down the road from now my body may have aged and my slender fingers may have changed,
but my mind will be capable of much and my heart still tender with love,
(if you were to have it.)
Listen, old friend. The birds above in canpoy far removed from whence, are calling.
Smell, old friend, the scent of lillies wafting from deep bosom to your nose.
Earthen hands you now have, wrought of keystone placing and endless harvest moons where love on the Mountains was possible but less possible with too unforgiving limbs.
You creak with old… friend.
Old old, friend. Even upon first meet I spied in you something sweet.
Hot soup I did prepare, poured superfluous in to bowl, cupped in willing hands, given in kind gesture.
You accepted unknowing of my affections. I too knew little of what lie ahead.
Now, we are chess mates, young one. Out of the vastness of years spent I find us, tiny glass players in hand, breathily laughing of how speedy tomorrow became yesterday.
How tomorrow became yours and mine, shared yesterday.
(treasure found from 9/25/08)