no day could dawn bright enough,
or open with enough sunlight, to shine or even
mirror the way that we glow. each morning, each
afternoon spent inside your face is
too precarious to remember,
too precious to forget.
even when we are old, even when
rheumatic eyes and creaking joints
whisper painfully to each other,
hang your hat on my bedpost, dear,
and leave your shoes on the mat;
then taste me on your lips.

next week, next month, next year
or in the next lifetime, we'll reach that dream of
marriage, babies, white picket fences.
and no matter how many times i say it,
there is always room for once more:
timeless. transcendental.
especially in these days when words
run dear, my love, you'll never have to ask
where my heart lies at night.
here, next to yours, and beating in time:
a counterpoint that never fades,
teasing rhythm from each year of life.