In the Library

We sit together, holding worn and too

real pages that smell of Egypt:

cool and crisp against our fingertips.

 

We hum our individual orchestras

left in the back of our minds when all we can think of is

school and work and colleges and scholarships.

 

We take this moment, just us in the comforting silence of each other, and

lurk our trindles out into the dark:

late into the night and around each other as

we whisper secrets that we keep even from ourselves.

 

Strike out the calendar- for dates do not matter. Time is no longer a

straight path but instead a mixture of swirling minutes and hours as

we lay beside each other in the moonlight and

sing show tunes to the stars and recite stories from memory. With you there is no

sin, only promises that bridge the gap of years

we are destined to spindle away together with

thin faces and paper bodies wearied by time together and

gin shared as we grow older and closer.

 

We tap against the roof of futures and memories like

jazz. This music of ours stretches out across the seasons: April,

June, September, December. And as we skim across this universe,

we fade into the black and white print words around us. But this daydream could not

die- instead becoming confined as you grabbed my hand, still staring at the page with a blush that would fade all too

soon from your cheeks but not from this moment captured like a photograph in our little universe. 

This poem is about: 
Me

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