If you sing to me I’ll start crying
I wonder if I can turn old enough,
that my heart accelerating under the covers
is not what wakes me.
That I don’t seek solace in sex in a bar bathroom.
That I don’t fall on my knees to stress clean,
creating cover from eye contact.
When joy will be my emotion,
on a day that looks ahead and back.
That looking ahead and back will feel as straightforward as it sounds.
All I know is I’m not that old yet,
as I put laundry in the dryer,
and dishes in the sink,
and clothes between me and habits of casual sex,
and time between me and what I remember of myself.
And that if you start to sing to me,
I will not be able to stop crying.
There is no trick that ends our emotions into one’s that that leave us fit for company.
No pressure that makes time enough of a change agent,
for the reflection we’re still working up to.
Because the future,
with our past,
in the shadow of a birthday candle
is more than that moment’s flame,
catching our eye,
and our wishes.
Even just one of them.
Even just one from every person singing.