Preservatives

Moth-eaten sheets over dusty shelves
On which I’ve got a jar of love
Pickled and bottled up; it’ll keep for eons.

And yet, a darkness that has no name
Is shaking my hand in introduction
I say quietly, “I think we’ve met.”
My backbone is bent with 20 years of age
But we can still run now
Maybe the sun won’t rise or set, waiting
While we dash off into dusky skies
And hasten through multi-hued dawns
To where we’re not fighting the world
Or ourselves;
Time stops. For us.

I’ve brought my pickled love with me
But perhaps I should leave it by the wayside
And brew love a-fresh instead
Right into your morning coffee and breakfast in bed.

©Neeti 020609

this one's for you.