Remembering what we'll be.
I remember when we'll get a house together. The one with the shingles falling off the roof, and you'll call it poetic and I'll call it delightful, and we'll collapse along with the fading white veranda. You glued the halves of the broken flowerpot because you wholeheartedly
believed in animism, ignoring my laughs at your total terracotta concentration. I've bought the tablecloths we're going to buy, and taken the ferry we'll guiltily drop icecream on. I know how it happened, as do you. We'll play shaky giggly soccer in the park and grin
at the children pointing ourselves out to us. We made love next month and kissed next week, holding hands the yesterday after that. The cheesy photographs will develop into white, which we'll put into frames to briefly glance at
when we enter our bedrooms. And so, you and I find ourselves impatiently dismissing today because we've already met tomorrow.