Tick, tock
We count the seconds, minutes,
          hours, days,
                    years, decades
          of our lives.
Why?
Time is a man-made construct.
We're taught to define our lives by it,
          confine our very selves by it
          from the time of our birth,
          counting down until our death.
One, two, three, four.
Stop the counting.
Do what you have to, but then...
As far as I'm concerned
time should not be a rule,
          but merely a suggestion.

I could make a home in the warmth of his arms,
my cheek pressed to his chest,
his pulse puncturing my ear,
breathing echoing in the small space.
The blue pools of his eyes could redefine the sky.
My ribcage could be occupied by his fingers
and we could be happy.

Sometimes I wonder if he was born
with those thin black fibers perfectly spread across his jaw
and that tired, intelligent shadow
beneath his eyelashes.
It was the swift eyebrow raises that got me.
It was the tiny smirks from across the room,
the glances,
the suggestion.
We were shoulders brushing,
eyes nestled on one another,
lowered voices,
pauses.

We were dangerous.