It’s a love poem written in several voices as we were younger and now we are nearly old though you will never admit that. You are kinder now and more tuned in to me though that is not to say you were not tuned in before. I look at you and see silver hair which I am certain someone dyed just before I woke up and though your eyes are larger now they are still sometimes bluely sad. Your hands are warm and I could hold them all night while we travel through the strains of our past accompanied by the Beach Boys, Elvis and Barry Manilow, maybe Bob Dylan will elect to ride along as we fly towards morning. Your hand on my hip as we travel and the warmth of your arm still strong supports my flight of fancy and your finger knows the electric switch we rarely turn off. Where shall we go tonight we wonder and there the discussion stops as flight is infinitely appealing, fueled by the scent of stardust and fog, pathway cut by the blue moon ahead, we fly in circles hovering over the ground just to see if we can still do it. There are no seasons to this love as they have combined into themselves: folded together like egg whites, we feel the sharp pinch of winter while we are savoring the pussy willows of spring. If one of us was pulled apart, the other might shrink and pale and lose the blush of summer: wandering forever while searching for the taste of salted bliss. Your grace, like a wandering minstrel, makes my eyes widen and hunger and your laugh makes every cell in my body recirculate. Having waited all my life for you, I want to put my finger on the ground and stop the world.