Tomorrow’s gloved territory, finally
beckoning within the clock’s perpetual
movements aches at us. Its buds silently
still, unborn; held just beyond the casual
breath of each second curling at our skin
as flames burn at hours and their grey tinder
mouths trace those kisses staining with assassin
like precision at this day and linger
within each atom. Change is a science;
the simplicity of dissolving years
and the low snarl of vows whispered long since
shoots through our limbs, through the night’s souvenirs
with the blister of honesty branding
our soft throats, choked with blood and surviving.
