the story of us

i wore nothing but myself that day;
no preconceived notions of who i was or what i was about.
clad in slim limbs and torso, waist small. ungainly.
a cardboard box could have covered me and i would have felt none the worse for it.
sunny blue skies.
waiting.
for trains to arrive and trips to begin.
cigarette.
waiting.
arrival. standing. smiling.
he is here now and i never want him gone again.

silence.

singing in silent vibration with the all mighty stars of my inner-verse.
uniquely.
almost a uni-brow; doesn't bother me.
almost a man now with boyhood still splaying its gangly arms about him.
holding.
for just a second.

divine.

mine? the question was already there when i asked how he was.
like a seagull: mine?
yours.
there was no question on my end.
only warmth spreading along my spinal column to lips already poised for kissing.
waiting. still.
arms untangling, first steps taken, towards a journey that would lead us else where.
unexplored unchartable realms.
dreams?
reality?
who's to say?
i cannot and i was there.
music. smoke. candy.
a trilogy of greatness that would shepherd us through frustration, modulation, undulation and suffering.
don't worry. i didn't know this then.
now.
only the pain and pleasure of wanting and not receiving,
the bounty of your smile,
getting lost in that gap and finding myself in your eyes.
waiting.
passing through hillsides, lifetimes.
so secure in ignoring the present,
allowing it to slip through fingers better suited for touching.
laying heads and memories together to ride baselines of light and sound.
the future not yet come to pass.
only. now. then.
knowing what i seek lives inside the smile that not only mocks, but tantalizes me to love.
you.
me.
together we are.
love.