Four out of Forever

I. 
Day one thousand,
four hundred
and sixty one.  

That abandoned stadium 
with the black rose perfume
wafting from the baseboards   
is a distant red pin 
on our creased, coffee-stained map. 

The years have been kind to us — mostly.
We have tightroped on telephone wires 
during the dark days, and fluorescent nights
when distance was not the only plague.
And once out of the allegorical cave,
I was reassured that you, 
my tall and lanky shadow cast by firelight
were not merely that. 

II. 
The shadow was not you, 
but it was yours. 
Tethered to you by the boot heel 
in the days of our bereavement. 
When you returned, ash at your feet, 
to reclaim it, it was like meeting you for the first time. 
Along with the gentle hum of your voice,
was the valley of your chest, 
on which I lay to gaze upon my starless ceiling. 

Your once immaterial hand was now secured mine 
and like the beginning, I fell asleep
to the whooshing of wind 
through the caverns of your lungs.  
And like an explorer, 
I discovered anew, the deep rumble of your voice,
the rippling aftershocks of your earthquake laughter,
your touch — softer than silk but as sure as a surgeon’s. 

III.
This year, we are twice as grateful 
yet, twice as existential
as we strap more age to our backs. 
We sometimes forget what youth tastes like,
though it still lies like an almost melted candy
at the back of our tongues.

We are house-hunting nomads,
with the hearts of gypsies.    
We sit in token candlelight,
drinking Tuscan wine and eating Camembert 
atop salted crackers and charcuterie.   
We exhume our old skeletons and talk of them, 
over the clinking of monogrammed cutlery.  

IV.
Now, I sink to sleep
and awake to find you’ve surfaced with me. 
We chase the hours and I, ever the stenographer,
have our every moment at my fingertips. 
I believe our cave days are over;
the world is bright and blinding
and if we take it together,
it might not be the Everest we think 
is beyond us.    

V.
I choose you like the sea chooses the captain,
like the moons choose their planet. 
Natural. Unforced but intended. 
As everyone begins to drift apart, 
overcoming their tidal forces,
and bowing to the Big Bang,
we hold fast in mutual gravity. 

Two hundred and eight weeks.

Two million, one hundred and three thousand

eight hundred and forty minutes. 
Four years 
and forever to go.