When I'm 81

By Bilal Salman Ahmad

I’ll be the one who stays ‘til the end,

your lover, your anchor, your dearest friend.

I’ll be the one who bends, who grows,

who plants a garden of roses

just so you know — love doesn’t wither,

even when the curtain closes.

But tell me — will you still hold me near,

when silence grows louder year by year?

When my memory frays like an old, soft seam,

and I forget the faces that filled my dream?

When I turn eighty-one and the world feels dim,

will you still be proud to say, “He was him”?

I am the one who waited so long,

the one who is clumsy, the one who is wrong.

But still, I’ll love you the way I should,

not with perfection, but with all I could.

Through every season, rain or fire,

you’ll be the prayer behind desire.

And if my accomplishments fade to none,

if I’ve no fresh story, no race I’ve won,

will you still see me — not as a man undone,

but as the boy who loved you, the only one?

I’ll wish you joy, I’ll wish you new skies,

but I hope when you look into my eyes

you’ll find a home, a place to rest,

a heart that beat for you, nothing less.

So tell me you find it hard to be,

and I’ll whisper, “It’s alright, with me.”

For love is not glory, nor is it fame —

it’s saying your name when I’m half the same.

It’s the way you show me what life can do,

how happiness blooms when it’s colored by you.

And I, I will stay, I will not let go,

for love is the only thing I know.

By Bilal Salman Ahmad