Unfold the page of memories of two
who love afar and cry like me and you
It’s us; the simile is written thin
the metaphor of love does not begin
to tell of how we love in burning rooms
or how we rescue love from dusty tombs
I drive my silver jeep and hold her hand
my memory may fail, but I’ll demand
the recollection of the fabric seats
to tell of how we moved without retreats
To touch our skin, our warmth, our lips, and all
the skin within brain crevasses can’t fall
from logic and intelligence; I’ll quit
from thinking if constrained or scarred by it.