By furtive grins lost in the fences of words
And worries. If but words could be chased
Into willed smiles like flocks of autumn birds—
The time you still dreamed outside of sleep.
Your hand flails for mine now as if I were
Gravity—your orbit mine to keep.
But gravity falters where quanta endure.
We learned all matter must go dark
And cold in the last, lost reaches of time,
But if my hand could reach yours, not so stark
Would the end, would the whimper seem.
So give to me your hands that we defy
The grip of physics, and live our lovely lie.