all the time in the world
what a gift it is
to sit in solitude
and indulge in a mental manifesto where you and I share a soul.
to rest in blissful isolation from the surrounding world,
knowing that this romance dies in reality
employ the euphoria of anonymity,
exploring our imaginary fragment of infinity.
do we give into peace?
exhaust ourselves chasing passion?
or, do we instead rely on the sentimental structure of wishful thinking—
spilling in our sobriety what custom would reserve for drinking,
while we drown in our champagne,
rejoicing and lamenting in the same vein,
and dance on top of quicksand that shimmers as we're sinking.
we chase the effervescent afterglow
directly through the undertow,
but the weight of the world submerges you,
and waiting for you to come up for air consumes me.
we both know I'll keep swimming,
but I am not strong enough to tread water
for both of us.
this dream conceived in earnest reveals painful truths:
we are still children
playing house in a mansion,
where the furniture usurps us
yet it matches our intentions.
we act as footstools for each other,
bolstering the other and
praying for divine intervention
to reach things on our own,
but neither growth nor grace
is ever granted in a hurry,
instead of rushing towards an ethereal hypothesis,
I'll rest in the delayed gratification of our selah,
taking stock of each personal hallelujah,
and cherishing the waiting
until our hearts can stand on their own.
our gentle condemnation of cheating time,
the delicate frustration that exists with the interference of patience—
the same measure that protects a someday
with the mundane;
this prescribed pause forces me back
into the world
with everyone else,
and erases my daydream
until all I am left with is a vision
of a boy and a girl, whispering about
how sweet it might be
to have all of the time in the world.