Chrysalis

Change, metamorphosis,
transfiguration.
I have always trembled,
clenching teeth and locking jaw–
what which threatens permanence
what which haunts stability.
And if Time embodies all change,
then I fear Time herself, for she
is the only measurable gust of wind
reckless enough to damage
what appeared so indestructible
moments before its ruin.
Time, her cruel death grip,
pointed nails drawing red
from the backs of our necks,
catches a glimpse of our love–
an extraordinary, fierce
relentless
love,
and lusts after its destruction.
She, foaming at the lips,
watches,
bathing in the damp moss of envy
and schemes.
We are but her pawns.
She hungers for change,
but I remain ravenous
for the delicate flavor
of right now,
with you

at the very bottom of Her tiny
threadbare pockets
where you and I
are young and on fire,
exhaling life
while we are still allowed
to ignite together.

Stay, I beg,
and your hands brush my cheek
on the verge of a moment
we sketch into oblivion.
An oblivion where
the glass still surrounds us,
one
where we are still
far from reach.

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