What you'll smell like at eighty...

I wonder what you’ll smell like at eighty. Skin sagging, discolored, eyes clouded, varicose vains, limbs arthritic but still wrapping around me. I never want to sleep in separate beds.  Will our room be tidy? Or like mine? Our house a cross section of what’s yours and what’s mine? Or just, ours?
I really don’t like your arrogance or some of your opinions, but I know you’ll never change. I’m not so keen on your point of view, when we disagree. But with you, I’ll always try to find a middle ground where we can just be, peacefully.
You click your nails on hard surfaces, you do it when we’re waiting to get our morning coffee.   You scrape your fork across your teeth as you draw it slowly out of your mouth, making me cringe in, my fingers flex and eyes crease in.

But there are some things I want to see. You, with our someone on your hip. You watching that tiny someone sleep. Us in twenty years, suits and dresses surrounding us as we fuss to get ready for the wedding of our grown up.  
The wrinkles round your eyes will be so kissable, tongue-traceable. Brown hands and bitten nails, hardened by the garden, but so safe in mine.  My arm in the curve of your waist, even after your hip replacement, that feeling will never change.