10 Years

10 years from now,
I meant to say,
we will look back at this moment
and pin-point precisely
when this happiness began:

In the delicate light of a Saturday in autumn,
standing with my arm around your waist,
looking out to sea,
breathing in and out with the tide.

Ten years from now,
I meant to add,
you will look up over a photo album,
with a few more wrinkles on your face,
and we'll meet between the pages and the years,
knowing it's just the same now.

But I didn't get my words out quick enough.

You turned your back on the future I'd sketched out,
and before I had time to type it up

you'd gone.