Pause

It's easy to start with something substantive,
for it's you;
you place your head on my chest
where your tears are laid to rest;

you smell of work
and bus stops, the premature night
in your conditioned hair, crescent
of frustrated grief.

I wish I could fast it forward,
I wish I could pause it all,
(30, 40, 50, 60,
when is old? A death expected?)

- here in our private darkness,
practicing the at-once universal
and inalienable personal
truth of truths; a fist smacks down

so I hold your shaking close,
closer, closest I've ever held;
and for a while I feel the tears meld
the seconds into hours,

our beats unify and slow,
slower, slowest I've ever felt;
and for a while our latticed fingers melt
the hours into years;

this could be now,
this could be then,
this could be it.