I
mourn our love, as eternity is fixed—this lifespan of mere mortals: our days as
children; our nights by frolic; this turn to sadness our measure; where seconds
are worn, that knitted quilt—to perish cruel fate. I love instead, this
immortal feeling, chased by time: that mirrored gesture; that coquettish smile;
that drumbeat laugh; as more a soul, those years at training, those therapeutic
flutes…. Were love wretched, we could die—that place of fainted hearts; but
love sings, this boisterous song, as arcs churn our symphony. It must be
gentle, that precious palm, abed that light; to have loved so boldly, to have
died with grace, to have given beyond measure; that cryptic voice, so cherished
as mystic, to find your print aspark a furnace; to hold your hand, to reminisce
by joy, this exit perfected by irony; where doves would cry, as geese stand in
formation, while deers leap in celebration; but more this moment, painting
blueberry toes, while nibbling cheesecake. We know for struggle, as our
graduation, where others want such cultivation; this inner resolve, to love by
actions, where speech compliments aforesaid: that outer miracle; those charming
red lights; that fireplace of prose: our dear encounters; our centered luxuries;
our minds as psychs to nerves. I fumble to reach us; I die to inflate us; and
more this miracle to voice us: those bedroom gardens; that tank of butterflies;
our adventures by minds our meditations; to feel your heart, as beating
motion—so near to touch; to share secrets, as delving deepness, while at tears
to return to earth; that rich enchantment, as warm as liquids, to see with
souls this immortal reach; but never as taken, to part by grace, to have loved
as fools; this abundant pleasure, as furnished imperials, to waltz by aches
such fervor; where love is life, as life is love, if but forever this bold
endeavor. We’re still to laugh, adrift this afterworld, chasing as high school
students: those symbols of music; each breath an undercurrent; each step as
matrimony. We loved a feeling, to cultivate passions, to become as if your
right arm; that second to pause, to ponder your feelings, as to love by chase
your arc; this soothing jazz, or that macchiato, or million dollar diamonds:
this space is us, as purple irony, seeping into blues.
