If I reach the old age,
I will set aside hours to tinker,
tapping my cane on the staircase,
I'd rather test the sound of the supports,
then look to my own.
Reaching that state where I dream when I wake,
and stir my sheets when I sleep,
I will smile faintly and read from a distance,
squinting when thinking takes time,
if it doesn't ring in my mind, it must not be true.
I describe the twists and flashes of color,
sweat and aspirations that peek at me
from your eyes and the wave of hair,
but I have no idea what makes you beat
and talk in the manner you do:
at your core, I do not understand you.
And this goes on and on for all whom I've met,
but one, darling you who makes sense
of so many senseless things,
I gravitate to you in these,
as my heart understands, though my mind does not:
I feel and know home, yet I cannot encompass it with definition.
