(untitled)


We dance again, and know
that crying cannot make us live,
and living can not make us die,
but only this moment can affect
our passage through the world;

Why then, must we cling to the cobweb
of whatever it was we were, 
and moan to ourselves our moanings,
and muse to oourselves our musings,
without some act of creation?

Our twirls around one another,
our drifting orbits,
our gravity fades.

What would I think, if I were
watching from beyond a frosted window?

"Why do these two lovers cry?
Revel in each the other.
Enjoy the time, the moment, before
all is a wisp of memory, drifting 
into that spacious void of forgetfulness,"
my other self would seem to say.

And instead, I watch
your melencholy eyes,
before you close the
blinds.

I will not mumble 'forever' in your ear ever again.
You will give me this moment,
and only this moment,
for the rest of your life.
back. . .