At the end of all things, there will always be
You and I, dear – and our little story.

There will still be, at hand,
the time you spun me round to dance
– at the same time
I spun you round to dance –
in a little, stardusted, pocket of memory
in the black coat of the universe.

The curse of remembering, is
Our lovers’ loving curse.

It happened – we can always retrieve
Our little fairy story, the story we craft for the world,
Then leave.

At the end of it all, if we are not here
in our compact, glittering world of Each Other;
Even if my memory is riddled with
the little worms of age,
There will always be a part of my young self
Trapped in that giant’s pocket with your young self.
That spiral-bound Tale of Us
Sitting on my third bookshelf.