To speak with movement, as if our words were water. All the hours you've spent as the plotter; the spotter of splits, hiccups and missed bits of info that slipped out of sight while we were dancing.
Every spark flying from fires, every dark moment conspired, by those discerning, rising higher in the burning of books, last looks, and the things you took, so as to give them back again.
Drop your guns but don't run. Keep your feet met with the deep feelings that keep you tethered together.
Love like drums is humming inside empty buildings with broken windows, waiting.