HERE 

by Owen Lindley

I want to fall asleep at a reasonable time.

I want a large 401k.

I want a clean house with vacuumed carpets

and lemon fresh floors.

I want stylish furniture and a working fireplace.

I want to walk in the door

and find you in the kitchen apron on, 

listening to music from the record player,

burning dinner with love

because tonight was your night to cook, poorly.

I want to drink wine, and

appreciate charred chicken.

I want to run your finger along a map unfolded on

our hardwood floor.

Here, I want to say, when your

hand comes to a rest. Here.

Let's go here.

I want to wear a dry-cleaned suit,

and tell you that before you 

everything was terrifying.

I want to ask you to stay forever.

But I woke up late, hungover

and fuzzy on the details. 

Drank a Yoo-hoo! and bitter coffee,

vomited next to my sputtering car,

and couldn't find any money

in my wrinkled pockets for the tolls again.

I'm broken beyond repair.

But there's a heartbeat here,

beating hopelessly still with hope.