When I was 8,
I looked into my cereal bowl
and I saw my future.
The letters arranged and rearranged themselves.
Becoming marshmallow oracles.
Conjuring a splendid voodoo of whole grains.
They told me I’d write poems one day.
Not in whole milk. But on paper.
When I was 19 I looked at my reflection
on my subway window
and I saw my future:
reflective, thoughtful, subdued.
The muscles in my back
relinquishing their right to fight against your presence.
Settling into the ride ahead.
At least for this one night.
You were beside me, asleep on my shoulder.
A future I could believe in.
Last night, I dreamed of you.
I looked into your eyes and I saw my future.
In your left eye,
I saw us at a coffee shop.
I got a soda. You got chai tea.
I could see your laughter creep
out from our hands held together.
In your right eye,
I saw myself writing you another song.
I titled it, “The way things are.”
Which, at that moment, was sweeter
than any future I could have come up with myself.