“golden”

golden

in fifty-one years,
my hands will be
as subtle as time
and as gentle as moonlight
in mid-july.

my fingerprints will
mark moments
without a sense of loss
or any lack of wonder.

in fact,
they will take magic
by the hand
and lead her on a dance
through memories of romance,
of elegantly clutching darkness
during astonishing summers
and slowly unraveling,
then relinquishing,
my ego.

in fifty-one years,
i will sink back into myself
like a child with a new set of eyes
and walk along the streets of brazil,
inching toward perfection,
living in a world
as delicious
and sweet
as honey.