Eilidh McDade Ives (she/they)
I am 17 and time is infinite.
The sky is bright and boundless and I throw my little arms open wide.
I am 17 and full of air and I love you so carelessly.
I am 17 and the spark within me burns from the inside out.
You melt between my fingers and it all happens too quick.
I will spend the next century drifting aimlessly,
allowing the years to roll in,
gently tossing my body as I gaze up to the stars
and think about your blue motorcycle and how free we felt back then.
I will consume the blame of all our wasted years;
and when I am old and worn and tired
watching us live and breathe in one of your old photographs,
I’ll know my time is upon me and I will wonder,
where will my body return to, if not next to yours?
We will slow to our final halt,
and you will have aged beautifully,
the apples of your cheeks still as soft as I remembered them.
I will draw in my very last breath
and we will forget the time we argued in my parents’ living room so bad the house shook
and instead remember the painting of our hands I made you,
when they weren’t wrinkled and tender and our veins still sat underneath our skin.
We will run them through the damp soil where our bodies will finally agree to let go
and for the first time,
still and ready,
I will come home to you.
