Perhaps I will tire of your grammar,
find myself yearning
for the rumble of verb
or the soft flesh of pure vowel
on those mornings when I stumble
over your landscape
of unforgiving nouns.
And it’s possible I will whittle away the very ribcage
in which I once sought sanctuary,
gnaw at the unbending sinew of ancestral norm,
say fuck you,
say cope up,
just to disrupt
your family symmetries your patrician DNA.
Maybe I will simply
want something more
than your bequest of semicolons – something more final,
But even if I turn the page before you do,
remember I am as dog-eared,
as you are,
and as much in love.