We live in the liminal of imagined dreams

                                           What if

We parked our shoes and dust our sleeves

The wounds are clean
                             
                                                            What if

We mean what we spoke

And pinky swear and it’s still there

Feed the elephant of what it craved

Carcasses of threshold crossed

                           It’s you and me

Finally; what if

         I die every day loving you

And silently you do the same

          And our lungs are fresh air