the young horses

I want to be an old man. Not now. But someday. I want to spend my mornings working in a garden. I want to spend my afternoons at a cafe in a foreign city. And I want to indulge my memory like it's a spoiled grandchild. I'll think about the women. Every single detail I can remember. And the rest I will imagine to be a pleasurable fiction. At night, I will in all likelihood be sad. And that will be a perfectly paired wine to go with: Remembering the years of plump grapes. Squashed and,
fermented
and
you once told me
that it's all beautiful
and I agreed
cuz,
 you were beautiful.