it'd start with the holding of hands
- we'd drink coffee and talk for hours,
and fumble over the silences that
wouldn't be awkward but still
were not quite comfortable.
eventually you would call me dear,
and your stare would linger as you closed
the gap between your mouth and mine.
as your breath touched my cheek,
it would become claustrophobic.
we'd smoke cigars in the evening,
and watch the smoke float into the air,
towards the stars which really just stood
for a limitless amount of possibilities
- but maybe less like possibilities
and more like realizations.
more like realizations in the sense that
there would be so many, and so much
confusion but the confusion would be
less like confusion and more like certainties
but the certainties would for certain
be something neither of us would want to hear.
we'd read passages from our favourite books
while sitting in the grass with the
sun lightly kissing our backs, but we
wouldn't quite hear the words because
as surely as they head in they would surely
head out (like the not quite perpetual lust).
and we would try to catch them with our
arms outstretched to the heavens, but
we would slowly stop and our eyes would close
and we would want to cry and we would want to burn,
but that's okay - god isn't watching anymore.