In ten years, I’d like to swoop into your life like an Errol Flynn film and rescue you from boredom.

Imagine—
a decade from now,
our lives shed their skins,
emerge from the chrysalis
into something quieter.
Settled, like the weight
of a house resting
deep into its foundation—
cement, dirt, memory.

One morning, light breaks
through your kitchen window.
You pause—
and in the stillness,
remember:
my voice on an old message,
a letter folded in a drawer,
a strange little drawing
you once didn’t know what to do with.
These fragment gifts—
silent wallpaper
on the walls of your years.

But now they shimmer
under some unexpected filter.
You see them for what they are:
my slow construction
of one moment
meant only for you.

This one, when I appear—
swinging on a vine,
a ridiculous hero in tights,
half Robin Hood, half Ivanhoe,
a little bit Don Juan,
laughably vivid—
pulling you from grayscale days
into the kaleidoscope
I’ve been folding
for you all along.

And maybe—
you’ll reach for my hand.
And I’ll be ready
to play the hero.

If this story is any good—
it ends with a kiss.