Transcendentalism

The books never once opened on the shelf crack their pages to reveal thick-jawed beasts or the few remaining craters of ghost-towns or a sea of people shielding me from you and you from me The midnight meadow envelops our shared soul the wind of time blows over our young hearts The sinister ticking clock reminds you and reminds me our choices must be made we no longer have years but days, minutes, moments We drown in secrets, we choke on decisions Fear winds around my throat Ignorance becomes bliss Where is our escape? She blows out the candles and he yawns By evening their love is even greater, it grows by the minute I hear the teakettle scream as you get in bed, making the pillows mumble Their breath carries words of intimacy in hopes of avoiding the beasts, the craters, the sea of people inevitably shielding me from you I want to remember the pitch of your voice the glide of your step the scent of your skin You purse your lips just the slightest bit and whisper: "more"