One More for The Book

Love was the fishing wire that tied our wrists together.
We were too drunk with youth to see anything but stars, anything but dreams through the narrow end of the telescope.
And yet, we had the world; we ruled the territories of our hearts like kings.
All because we thought we had predicted, and tamed, love.
Love was the magic spell that we sipped precariously, like wine.
And time was nothing but an unconcentrated notion, a hypothesis.
Feet and yards were nothing to us, because we had love.
We were something of the sky, anyway, which is much too vast for inches..