let us keep time with aging dances, let us find our heaven in a kiss

sipping tea at Kyrie’s aunt and uncle’s place in Freeport…

Even breathing is a meter measuring off the pace of words and silent glances in your direction. counting off by breath a moment seems too short, too close, and I have not looked away in so long- I have not gasped for air, or thirsted for a sip of water to moisten these long silent lips.

But I turn- and take your hand walking you down along the rocks and watching the way you watch the waves. breathing in the salty breeze we need right now, right here to keep our eyes locked together- not moving as the sand slips out with the retreating tidewaters beneath our naked feet.

In a breath of tea-steam, or a faintly-caught odor of pink rose and cinnamon- on the back of a falling sigh, or waiting inside the white cloud of breath on a frozen day, something vital counts the moments…

When the ice on the window in the morning shimmers gilded with the sunlight, and the quiet of the dawn embraces me, my thoughts are of you, only you, and

I won’t look back, I will not look beyond this love- for something vital beats my heart and something strong courses my blood and your arms reach ’round the world to reach around my waist.

Even breathing is a meter, even breathing is a moment passing by I will not give up these early hours, for our imitations of eternity must begin with the most fleeting glances,

let us keep time with aging dances, let us find our heaven in a kiss and let the golden cities rise within our cry.