Eighteen

I wish I met you ten years ago,
when I was eighteen:
a tragic late bloomer
with no sense of humor
dreaming of my gypsy queen.
You would have found me on the couch
playing with my flip phone
at some house party off-campus
waiting to walk home alone.
You would have offered me a pot brownie,
when I imagine it now,
and we would have
talked all night
danced to the sunrise
and I would have kissed your mouth,
without a doubt.
It would have saved us so much time,
knowing it was always you
on that far end of forever
that I've been singing to.
Forever is not enough.
I want a whole life through,
to love you.
I wish I had junior year
to disappear in your brown eyes.
My first song should have been your song.
My first time, it should have been your arms.
A life to love you.
I want a whole life through to love you.
I want a whole life through to love you more.
I want a whole life through to love you more.
I wish I met you at five years old
through a crack in the fence
back when clouds were angels and
your hair was in tangles
and the world was its own sacrament.
In those ... sea of flashes
through the hourglass sand.
Now I only see in pictures
when once I could have held your hand.
I could have saved you from your parents' fighting.
I could have joined you in the closet hiding.
You could have saved me from the predjudice
and the goddamned fundamentalists.
But in the time that I have left,
I will not waste the rest of these years.
I want twenty Roman candles shooting;
I want twin liter beers.
Forever is not enough.
I want a whole life through,
to love you.
We could have had Springsteen, swim team, and blue skies.
My first song should have been your song.
My first time, it should have been your arms.
A life to love you.
I want a whole life through to love you.
I want a whole life through to love you more.
I want a whole life through to love you more.
And if we come back here,
let's find each other first.