i want to ask you something.
it has been millennium minutes,
an eternal second since your skin brushed hers
and took with it on moving backward
an imprint of the lyric-needles that, to this day,
she stitches her hopes together with.
when she weeps, the sound reminds me of cellos,
a drawn out moonlight sonata like beethoven never dreamed of,
but can you hear it when you’re the loom she weaves her thoughts on?
and when her fingers smooth the kink in your brow
do you ache with everything that she cannot say?
when your head is on her chest–
do you hear your name,n each pulsing beat?
it has been millennium seconds,
an eternal minute since her deeper surrender.
did you take the flag and wear it into the battle with yourself–
or did you leave it at her feet?