Sunflower Hair

 You look perfect in this minute--hovering like dust in the air--our minute, with you looking at me, me looking at you, and I see it, your innocence and surrender defining your love for me. I can see myself in you, but I somehow recognize myself less every day. (I wonder will it someday entirely disappear?) Those large, almond shaped eyes, green unlike my own. Darling, you are beautiful, light bouncing off your sunflower hair. I am laying on the bed, dress pulled up to bare my legs. The upstairs of this old, pink Victorian house gets hot and stuffy in the summer time as it would an attic. I want to hold this minute, cradle it like an infant fresh, writhing, stinking of placenta all warm and bloody. I think, I would like to remember you this way exactly, smiling and totally in love with me. But I know better dear girl. I know you will grow, because I will grow you. I know you will need to be yourself, and be less like me. I know you will forget sometimes you love me, and maybe I too. But anyway, I want to remember you, no us, like this: just together, alike, smitten, glowing and radiating and emitting and full of everything. I wonder if you see me--I mean really see me--the way I am full of faults and impatience with poor skin. (Do you know yet to see yourself in me?) In this minute, the sunlight is fading and you turn away, beautiful, tiny and disinterested.