Old

Can I hold your hand
until your fingernails grow long,
curl around my wrist,
and snap like branches from trees in autumn?

Your eyelashes will turn grey
and fall with each wish we make,
birthdays passing like winter storms.

Peach pits will rot at the core
of our tired hearts:
we have all but forgotten how it feels to be alone.

The mice will sing and dance
around the dust
like children underneath a full moon.

We can fill the bathtub with
delicate china cups and soft doll limbs,
and bury ourselves in what we know as comfort.

—By Zoe Jones