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.