The new seasons checker asks me if I’ve gotten any younger and I say
But I’m thinking about getting older.
I’m thinking about the people who mean things to me.
And what kinds of fruit their faces will become when they grow older.
Yours—a pinkerton avocado.
There were no good ones at the store today and I hear they’re rapidly going away.
Will your children know what an avocado is when I tell them that’s what your skin has become?
But I probably won’t know you then, or ever know your kids,
I only know you now,
like how now I’m concerned about the lack of avocados
and tomorrow it’ll be the pink lady apples
and I’m not sure what’s after but it’ll be something
(maybe I’ll have come around to grapefruit by then).
This is all to say I’m worrying about missing you
and I’m worrying about what comes after that
when you move far enough away from my mind and from my senses for me to stop,
missing you quite so consciously.
I’m afraid of the point where I stop knowing you.
Where I stop being able to say, “Thats so _________”