the ghosts of rocks tap your window
your friends are all dust in the air
you feel like some low-budget horror movie
trashed on a god-given sunday
and i’ve not got any pain left
and i might die but that’s okay
and this old movie called “youth”
well it gets old in it’s own way
the monkeys turn tricks on the boulevard
the leaves flap around in the sunlight
well painkillers make me feel alright
i guess that’s how i lie to get by sometimes
i guess that’s how i lie to get by alright.
A tenuous magic
exists this morning,
as we lay in bed
daring not to speak,
move, or even hardly breathe,
lest the spell be dispelled
at the slightest stirring.
was it the night
we sat on steps avoiding
others so we could speak secrets and dreams until 4am?
or was it the time
we walked in the park in
autumn sat on a bench beneath
the night acutely aware of our hands and the distance between them?
or was it that Thursday
the first time my lips fell into yours
in the background the treading percussion of Explosions in the Sky?
or was it that Sunday
at circle of hope when I calculated the exact pressure
of your hand on mine to equal the love of God and kept it to myself?
was it in old city
beneath the din of eighties hip hop
when I told my friends I would marry you someday?
was it in spanish
stumbling mispronunciations and incorrect accents
in an attempt better know those who mean the world to you?
was it in harvard yard
dressed as wizards wandering and wondering
where we could find the best butter beer in cambridge?
or was it the summer
we spent unemployed reading and mastering
the NY times crossword puzzle then emerged, merged adjusting our eyes to autumn?
or was it that night
in central PA when you showed me how
to cup both hands to carefully catch these drifting constellations?
I cannot say exactly
between my hands and yours
between sunset and sunrise
between the top and bottom step
between the mountains and the atlantic
between jersey and philly
between te amo and mahal kita
between the upbeat and downbeat
between the first and last page of this notebook
between one thousand and one days ago and today
I fell in love with you.
and even to partially properly articulate this
it will take my entire life
an infinite number of pages
and perfectly placed kisses
(which is part of my plan)
but something tells me
nothing will match
the simple eloquence
of your hand
fifty summers from tonight.