Grip

If she stands on my right under the shade on a summer day,
the first thing I do is fret over the stain on my undershirt.

I take her hand and compliment her nails though I am blind,
knowing only that these are her fingers and her casual genius.

Offering the necklace I found in a rock salt bubble bath bomb,
I hang the lost moon and stare upon the argent crescent.

When the sun has toasted the asphalt at midday past the shadow,
we sip from the same water bottle and pretend like it is nothing.

Speaking of music, guitar for surely that shall reach her heart,
I wonder how to pluck her steely strings and coax her to sing.

We promise that the day shall come where we shall walk in a park
and glance not at each other, knowing that the other still exists.

The concerts and the readings of the future, discussions of the truth,
shall never run dry long as we yearn to see the other between the lines.

Her brow speaks all the secrets that our words have long betrayed,
praying over and over that the miracle we saw will always stay.

How old and wise we may become in time, we muse together,
reading from the lead sheet that long cantus firmus threading fate.

If
she stands.