There's a pause,
and a tilt of the head,
a smile instead
of a word.
There's a pause,

a catch in time,
less than a second of silence
during which an eternity appears
and disappears
at light speed.
It's swallowed up
in the space between our eyes,

in the slow blink of weary lids
and the sullen turn of my head,
unwilling to part with this moment.
It's swallowed up
by my hand, clenched tight
to prevent it
from reaching out;
instead, I have grabbed this eternity
and silenced it,

curled my fingers around the soft shape
and stuffed it,
only slightly bent,
into my pocket.

Just now, I took it out
and tried to straighten the edges,
tried to get a clear picture.

I'm almost there,
almost back in that eternity,
almost willing to give it a try.
I'm almost there,
too soon it seems,
almost ready to jump,
to release

my breath,
form words,
unfurl pages of this
into the air.
But I know myself too well;
I will always be
almost ready.
Even though it feels
like more

when I'm with you.