If only I could stop the marching hours
from severing our yoke,
this dream would be circular
and filled with the bounty of our earth.
You say that I ground you. No grinding
of teeth between us. We’re comrades
in this battle for contentment
before our soul sets sail to its firmament.
In this December winter, the full silver
moon glows faintly through gapped
blinds and powders one side of your face
With a thin luminous layer.
As the hours march on, my heart utters
a quiet cry, refusing to let go
of a pleasant dream—the slight natural
vanilla and cinnamon scent of your skin.
Although with you, the advancing hours
become a heavy blues that percolates
our space. I feel a graying solitude,
a spatial fatigue, knowing time is only
a place of contemplation. With the moonlight
still dabbing your face, I fear the crying eyes
that dawn would bring after you’ve showered
and left, returning to a conjugal charade.
Stay. Let’s make this dream permanent.
I could tiptoe into your soul, replacing
sorrow by erecting a citadel of joy.
Instead, you continuously return to a fossil.