5. i want

i want
​to skip straight to our 70th wedding anniversary
i want flowers
pressed into the pages of my notebooks from my 20's 
before we broke up, moved cross-country,
and met again at a reading
i
was a broke resident still writing poetry
you
were still a workaholic
with a new fiancée
we
still laugh about how stricken i looked 
when you saw me,
how obvious it was to choose each other again

i want a honeymoon 
in your arms
sweat mingling and itching where our skin
rubbed against each other's in the dark
the sky was too cloudy and close to cities for stars
so we wished on passing airplanes,
our hearts beating like confetti
shallowly,
merrily,
​everywhere

i want a beat up Jeep in the driveway
that we drove from coast to coast 
one August
you moved in on my mouth but missed
and kissed the backside of my head
thank God no one else 
saw the way i swerved when you did

i want years of disagreeing 
over paint colors, religion, and kids
over where the dog should live
and if we should invest in vacations
with the in-laws
or retirement;
i want to crawl in bed,
kiss your forehead in forgiveness

i want history
ours
with page-long footnotes 
and glossaries filled with 
our secret language 
that survived the trauma of 
courtship, parenthood, and age
flaking with use,
glowing with meaning
a thing worthy of its own museum