Popcorn

One day I will be old

As I grow my skin will crease and stretch until you can no longer tell it was ever smooth

Freckles will engulf my skin

How is it, to live in a moment so fleeting it becomes the past?

To stare into the depths of yourself only to find a face so far and foreign–

I hate your golden curls,

the way they get matted when you sleep. 

I hate your boring blue eyes,

the way they look when you weep. 

I hate your sword of bronze,

the way you can call it at your hip. 

When you pass by,

you will sigh a small “hi.”

and

(of course),

I may not be near–

enough to respond

and