Love

My tears are busy
too busy to visit me.
they are aging over you.
Much like they're supposed to.
My tears are wine, and someday,
maybe we will get together.
Maybe find a rusted corkscrew.
Make a toast and uncross those stars.
Or maybe we won't.
Maybe I will just be.
Keep them in there, like that bird.
and live like I'm supposed to.
Until the time is right.
Until I'm quiet and gray,
and all I can remember is your freckled eyes,
and how they looked at me in that way sometimes,
when a lazy sunday summer dusk caught them.
I'll sneak into the night
and find some place all alone,
to sip that bottle sad and slow.