There is a pile of children’s blocks stacked up beside this mother’s apron; they spell out centuries of secluded memories, long since forgotten, purposefully or not. They carry our futures back into our pasts, delicate fingers tearing letters which gravitated together to reveal each precious truth of our existence.
And only time has told, will tell, that the understanding is ours alone until the remainder are ready; the whole spectrum of them, beyond family and friends, plus all of their stories stained into our skin. Such sweet sacred dirt, unearthed by surprising realizations and uncovered destinations that we simply can’t ignore anymore.
Our interlocked worlds are willing and breathless, revved up to conquer both ocean and sky; you and I, we swing swiftly on crescents of moons, reaching clusters of stars with sharp, charming limbs. The planets keep secrets they won’t tell aloud, but the point is the shift, progressive and planned, and all we must do is keep on.
I can only predict, mere musings in certainty, the impending events in my old, anxious hands: two brilliant hearts working swiftly in tandem, exposing rivers of dreams under orange-tinted skies. Our souls open wide, blissful and free, illuminated from the fire of invisible suns. And through the colors in our eyes we see untamed heat, ready to be contained and trained.
The stars had it right, their secrets are ours, and we know them to be both burden and gift. We’ll unlock the gates, leave them unbound and clear; to close them would cause a commotion. And last but not least, the final release, as we position each clock face down in the earth to create paths for forgotten time.
Truth: one day we’ll reach into the darkest depths of our pockets to grasp the skeleton keys that bind us both to the past: you hide mine, I’ll hide yours, and our love will meet in the middle.