In the hush before the storm of words,
Two hearts arrive – late, bruised, half-wild
Carrying the ash of other fires.
The beautiful wreckage of once-upon-a-times
That ended in quiet doors closing.
Yet here we stand,
Not as echoes of who we loved before,
But as two separate inks
Suddenly aware of the same page.
You tilt your head at the same slant of light
That makes a line shiver:
I catch my breath when your metaphor
Lands like a hand on the small of my back.
We speak the same rare dialect-caesura, stanza, the long ache
Of a dash that refuses to reslove.
And oh, the thrill of it –
The shared fever for the unsaid,
The way our pens hover together
Above white fields that have never known
Our particular shade of hunger.
I am giddy with the nearness of
What isn’t written yet:
Stanzas still sleeping in the marrow,
Kisses shaped like questions,
Nights when we will read each other aloud
Until the metaphors bleed into morning.
We are not erasing the past loves-
They taught us the grammar of longing-
But we are turning, together, toward a new syntax.
A syntax trembling with possibility,
Electric with the promise of every poem still waiting
To be born between us.
Let the ink run.
Let the anticipation crackle like static
Before the first shared line.
I am already breathless for
Whatever beautiful disaster we are about to write.
TenPastTen 
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