We could, if the universe would allow,
be not more than a minute long.
If the clockwork lets us,
it will be thus-
You and I lasting as long
as it takes for me to play a memory.
Perhaps a minute of childhood play
Or a confused moment of confession and forgiving.
Or just as long as we shared a song.
But there would be nothing
before or after.
In all familiarity, a minute of existence.
And no gasping others. Or histories. Or society.
Or where I wipe my fingers after I eat
And where you hide your keys from me.
And life would be about what we're pretending not to share,
Because of a curtained minute
When all rituals are winged things,
that hover but never bother.
And all that would matter
Would be a lifespan of a minute
When we are contained and true,
Like laughter in the curly brackets of a smile,
And a tipping hourglass i share with you.