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Time is echoes and snapshots afterwards.

In the fevered dark with a bare heart
still drumming against my own,
scared and almost unknowable,
your heat thrumming everywhere,
I think that nothing will ebb away.

That we'll emit this strange hallowed energy forever,
that we can press tightly together until
we see no true end or beginning to the other.

And all that's mysterious and sacred about a woman,
her unique electricity and scent,
her heart and shimmering soul,
seems locked in our cocoon of sheets,
of limbs that never need to solve puzzles.

We're already enjoined.

You'll think that nothing survives after 
mystery blossoms into the painfully familiar,
and you'll want to reach to the beginning,
but I don't want nostalgia to become dangerous,
to be a pain we'll have to leave behind.

I want us to have now.

Even if I hold on to echoes and snapshots
in our fevered vulnerable dark,
the wisps of an afterglow still lighting
your once unknowable eyes,
that small flash was everything to me.

I know that some things will never ebb away.

And everything that no one sees between us,
how our breath is caged as we release,
how you're the one that holds tight,
arms protectively encircling me 
when the flaring light has dimmed,
when we're little more than an afterimage
of thunderous storms and bursting stars.

And we'll emit a glow between us
deeper than any way two bodies can
seamlessly press together until we see 
no true end or beginning to the other.

We're already enjoined.

You'll want to reach back to start,
believing every chamber is discovered
after hearts blossom into the painfully familiar.

But I think all that is mysterious and sacred
between lovers never truly stops unfolding,
that nostalgia doesn't need to be
a dangerous ache to leave behind.

I just want us to have now.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

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