handfuls of air

In the park we circle the big loop bathed

in the piercing sun's last rays, riding

warm nostalgia waves through woods.

We cast our spells; we weave our future

of words. We cling to moments

as if they could be held,

hope warm like Christmas morning, exploring

possibilities waiting like treasures:

the house we saw and claimed. We made

an offer, the promise of a life together.

Air tingling, we pull the threads. We pluck

memories from air as evidence of fate -

a home of our own, the new start

we've always dreamed of - and we stagger

out of our dreams into the easement

when I get the call: our offer accepted.

A warm breeze sifts through us,

carrying away our doubts, carrying

us to the bench under the pavilion

where we'd sketched the outlines a year ago,

and now we kiss and watch the old day burn,

reflecting off the lamp-spotted lake.

We construct timelines from our excitement,

but life is moving beyond our reach.

She turns to me and asks,

Do you think we’re going to wrinkle together?

I say yes, and we descend

to the lake's edge where she balances on rocks,

just her and black space

and the sharp moon

and burning Venus and Mars

hanging over her head.

I wonder out loud if I am dreaming.

We were.

We didn't want to wake up yet.

The fragilest dreams are the best.

They shatter, and their fragments shine

and slice like diamonds.