The Perfect Age

Six years now and we still laugh.
We talk, often and as deeply as ever.
You constantly surprise me
and make me think, make me see,
even myself, differently.
Your arms are still a place of safety.
You protect me and challenge me
and have the wisdom to know when to do what.
I still smile when you walk in the room
and I catch myself simply looking,
taking you in.
There is still steam in your touch.
Unseemly perhaps in a man my age,
but welcome. You remind not that I am still alive,
but why.
Over and over again, in the early morning light,
I fall in love with you anew,
and always in wonder.

I learned a long time ago
we never get what we deserve.
We get worse. We get better.
And only a fool wastes his time
trying to understand why.
Time is short, and better spent savoring
than trying to figure all out.

I am old enough to know how rare this is,
and young enough to enjoy it.
The perfect age.

About this poem

When I first began seeing the woman I love, I was in a state of constant wonder and joy to have her presence in my life. Six years later, I still am.

Long may it be so.

Tom

PS: The picture was taken at a Rennaisance Faire in Sterling NY, back when we could do such things.