“To G.S.”

How do you measure time, my dear?
Is it the ticks upon the face of a grandfather clock?
Is it sand within a curvaceous hourglass?
Is it the repetitious schedule of solar and lunar bodies?

Or is it a manner similar to my own?

Like I, do you recall your head resting on my chest,
eyes shut from the world around you,
lost in your dreams?
Perhaps the memory of every time you
smiled – or became emotionally stimulated by –
the thought of my company?
Or maybe it’s the notion of every advance,
every confession, or each time my fingers
traced your satin anatomy or
my lips caressed your own?
Or still, does it process in heartbeats and “I love you’s”?

How do you measure time, my dear?
In increments?
A series of moments, woven together
like the digits of our hands intertwined,
softly emanating the shared electricity between us?
Our unified integrity and blended hearts?
Or our ability to melt into each other,
consumed in lakes and rivers composed of our affections?

Perhaps we should just forget about time,
and exist in the present forever.

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About Robert L. Franklin

Ah, the About Me section - social networking's excuse for you sounding like an elitist prick. Hmm... what to say? What to say?
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