in her summer dress

you drift off to sleep
in her arms,
but when you awaken you
are older now.
your hair has grown
white, your teeth are
loose. your bones
ache with more years
on them. you are wearing
the coat of an old man.
your eyes, once sharp,
are blurred as
you look up at the clock.
she is still asleep
beside you, but she
hasn't aged. she is
the same girl you knew
when you fell in love
with her so many years ago
as she walked beside
you on a new York street
in her summer dress,
her hair and eyes aglow
with so many tomorrows
yet to unfold.