Find me sitting under the apple tree
that concussed Newton
and worrying with my tongue
at the canker forming
above my right incisor.
I lick the ooze pouring from that sore
and taste the iron and bile that
strangles my dreaming throat
and wrenches me
from songs and poems
of love and glory.
Your hand is in mine.
Fires crash around us
as the stars have finally lost their fuel
and begin their descent from the heavenly
void that beckons us home
My hand perspires in yours,
and the sound of screaming plasma
overcomes the chorus of the coming night
and envelopes us in a sonic afghan,
stitched by your hands from the fabric of my memories.
And when our eyes shift from their cacophonous
songs,
and the world breathes her last sigh of defeat,
we embrace.
Because we know, just once, in this nightmare turned daydream,
that we aren\'t alone
and that we love
in tandem
forever.