Letter to a Future Love
Are you frustrated with me yet?
I’m frustrated with me.
I know I go quiet.
I know I seem far away,
like I’ve checked out
when really I’m just trying
to figure out where you fit
and whether I still know
how to hold something
without breaking it.
Love is a skill I let rust.
It got brittle. Damaged.
But not lost—not completely.
I’m willing to learn it again
if you’re willing to teach.
I was never Romeo.
Can’t quote Shakespeare, can’t do candlelight.
I’d rather make you a grilled cheese,
sit on the couch,
watch something stupid,
and hear about your day.
I’m always afraid it isn’t enough.
Afraid—what a small word
for a man covered in tattoos
with stories that’d curl your toes.
But here I am. Afraid.
Because I let you in.
Because after being alone this long,
the thought of going back to it
makes my stomach turn.
I’m getting old.
I feel it in every creak, every wrinkle,
every gray hair screaming at me
to stop wasting time.
I don’t want to die alone.
So be patient with me.
I’ll make you laugh every day.
I’ll try my best.
I’ll hide the fear because I don’t want
to burden you with the weight
of a man who’s terrified
of loving and losing again.
Just decide if it’s real.
Then you can have the real me.
Otherwise, walk away now
and let me rest in peace.
Always,
Me.