The Future

One of these days, we’d be impulsive and reckless together and we’ll be okay living under a single turquoise cotton-made sheet that would sweep the chill of the evening breeze by two levels of warmth. Every day, I'll try to wake you up and we'll happily eat our breakfast in bed while you are criticizing my self-proclaimed skills in cooking. Every night, I’ll routinely try to lull your jittery thoughts away until you fade into the somnolent waves of sleep, and kissing you goodnight until I shall fade into the caresses of your unconscious hands, inside the curve of your mindless wanting arms. Every ten o’clock by the moonlit surface of our self-built abode, the crickets will score the beauty of our intertwined anatomy — you facing me, and I facing you, and us facing each other in such swept-up harmony of our bones, of the fragile joints that hold up our embrace in the silent hours of the night. By the opened window the quiet air will creep in and would surreptitiously plant kisses on our skin, as you and I in our dreams shall we outrightly plant kisses on the whole geography of each other’s bodies and souls, perpetually until we wake up by the morning sunlight.

One of these days, we’d have to swim through the sea of books and records I’d evidently grow up buying and collecting — all these unread pages and unheard songs, piled up by the floor. One of these days, we’d have to live penniless and eat canned tuna and take care of our dozen cat infants like they were our children. One day, we’d gaze through the color-changing skies and dye our hair by that same mood-swinging principle.

One of these days, my love, all of this imagined images in my head would come true. One of these days, I’ll be with you daily and nightly and perpetually — one of these days, my love, one of these days.