Why is my *now*
forever always your *yet*?
We seek a simultaneity
that time will never beget.
Though each moment of mine
blazes as brilliant soul-lightning,
your grasp of that moment
is more along the nature of thunder heard.
And thus by delay beset,
and with synchronicity, if only by nanoseconds,
rendered misfit,
we’d regress to perfect loneliness
(if rationality would permit).

Even if we huddled in a near-time
of sweet bubbling caresses,
each very moment of self
would remain an instant separated
by a fleeting temporal chasm
interposing between near and far
like a pane of glass
between two lovers’ kisses.

So thus with exactness doomed
by time and its distancing inventions,
I shall never know the precise moment of you
in your timeless immediate bloom.

Still...
We can dance:
Arrange our near-instances
into a synchronous prance.
Interlope and leap in tandem,
knowing that the moments we each have to ourselves
are, nonetheless, perfectly-matched,
step for step,
changing yet changing together,
in this flurry,
this romance,
this collusion of flashing and dashing:
our dance.