Twelve years old and you found yourself praying for your future wife;
you had me in your heart even then,
the girl you hadn't met but longed to know.
It was Tuesday
a piano sat quiet on the stage, the church sanctuary dim with the shadows of a May night,
our laughing whispers the sole sound
reverberating off eclectic chairs and sloping ceilings.
Our butts, pressed to the wood of the bench, body heat intertwining
your fingers slid over the weighted keys;
music filled the room, washed over the windows, filled your eyes, moved your soul
"sing it back to me."
Pools of salt water welled on the edge of my lashes, spilling to your shoulder;
your fingers, my fingers, our fingers knotted together
bringing us to the cusp
Our voices rising as fire from ashes, wistful, we released our melody to the heavens.
From the fold of the keys you lifted a ring
your hand shook, voice trembled, eyes cut me to my heart,
every moment aligning for this one question.
Our story is made of midnight talks expanding deep through the night
morning song birds telling us we forgot to sleep,
Emerson and Whitman and piano keys,
beer caps filled with cookie dough, open roads stretching wide
and Paul Cook,
our soundtrack, our midnight hour, our first kiss, our first love made.
the candles flickered gold on the piano top, your fingers searched for mine, body reached for mine;
the space between us dissipated;
a tattoo over our skin and souls
"will you be my candlelight?"
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