The flames tickle the notes as they
are swept up the chimney,
compliments of the maestro
and tiny players trapped inside
a shiny flat disc that twirls
inside an Infernal Machine.
And every now and then
the fire plays the wood
in such a way that
a crackle is let loose;
furtively attempting to match
the ambulatory beat of the
concerto and our hearts.
The carpet springs us up
as if we were walking,
laying in a field of grass,
minus, of course, all those
unwanted spectators:
voyeurs of the wild--
which in a way adds
a newfound respect for sterilization.
No matter how far we run from them,
some will find us.
They are most certainly
in the back of our minds
as we glance up
at the streams of moonlight that
ignite the thinning tendrils
of the smoke that were
refused from the chute.
They slowly retreat to
the night-time sky,
where they dissipate to infinity
(as we all must do one day).
But today is,
for all corporal intents and purposes,
the climax of that play we may call
"The Lives of Teenage Lovers."
It is here that the
threads of desperate conflict
find their voice
and sing out their dissent.
Now we both see each other
as we have always wanted to;
through the haze we can finally
faintly see who the other actually is.
The flames, reflected in your eyes,
laugh merrily at me
as I open my mouth to say
what we both knew all along:
