It’s you and I,
Sightseeing around the oldest town in Texas
With it’s brick buildings
That look like infants next to the ancient atoms in our skin.
Holding hands through moss-covered alleyways,
We are older than the cracked foundations and sullied windowpanes.
There are words on our tongues that could make the Parthenon
Feel young again.
We are old on the inside,
Where the last wheeze of a dying star
Still echoes through the universe,
masked by the sounds of our voice.
It’s you and I.
I am in your mouth; I am curled up
Next to your bones
And they hum my name the way
Gregorian monks sing of God.
I wonder if they’ve always known me—
If every cell in your body has just been waiting for me
To come home.
I tell them I am here now.
I let my bones sing with your bones.
We are the kind of harmonies that make the moon rise, at night.
We are the reason the tide comes in.
It’s you and I.
When they write of young lovers,
They are writing about the way your body feels against mine, in the dark.
Your mouth loved me better than any god.
I was the altar you lay prostrate in front of;
You were the confessional where my sins
Grew tongues and learned to talk.
We are ancient, you and I.
We are clumsy newborns with curious hands.
We are the stars that caught fire in the cosmos
Generations before the Earth pressed it’s molten clay together.
Once—we were the youngest creatures to ever exist.
Now, we are poets and landmines.
We are volatile and reckless and in love.
A short story is a love affair, a novel is a marriage. A short story is a photograph; a novel is a film.
A book is a dream that you hold in your hands.
*studies for 15 minutes*
well done self take a couple of weeks off
Nkiruka loved music and now I saw that she was right because life is extremely short and you cannot dance to current affairs.