You got lipstick stain on your tall glass. Those
are some rough years mellowing you out, the fine lines
over a smile, of which
patiently carved into by birthday candles one after the other.
I talk with only half of your language, and that
was plentiful vocabulary enough to have living room arguments in
the middle of June
that wound us up with unspoken compromises.
My words shoot to kill when I'm mad.
And I have a lot of regrets about that.
Some of my worst days have passed.
The worst is yet to come.
I spent many peaceful days eating dinner with you
and I have prayed in my silence for evenings like these
to forever be this still.
To share warm banana bread with you at teatime forever, too.
To always know tough loving will eventually mellow into the softest of love.
