Time is never more illusive
than the dim hour in which
metaphors and linguistics
kiss
And then go tell
Revealing what happens when
lovers sit wide awake
immersed
in pleasurable solitude
Detached
from everything
Latched
onto the remnants
Straddling
the thickness
between fantasy and fact
The tick-tock of the affixxxed clock is never more
penetrating
than the minutes in which
lovers
become poets
Spooning words around lubricated pages
Droughted thoughts embracing
salted sweet tears
of neglected regrets
of dripping desires
The seconds running across the stopwatch are always out of order
when they leave uneven footprints
in the sand of the beach
that is the mind of the dramatist
When lovers
and poets
make love to 3AM
the alarm clock is always the antagonist