If anyone can just allow us that,
I know he's chasing them; their fright shining on their every step,
I record the pulse, the subtle rhythms tearing through pavement:
her music: speaking softly, my vision strained,
in repetition, again, I hoped, I announced, "Not today,"
these are about everything we have to give now,
so reciprocation, your hesitant grasp, I want it now.

Every second, making his slow march through the cities' streets,
every second, I see the pausing requests,
every beginning revolving back again,
"Not today," she mutters, "I haven't given it any thought,"
and my every patience, you brush all of them aside, grinning,
"Not today," I growl,
I wanted that then,
my pause without concerns,
and quiet nourishment, I won't speak to you anymore,
and every regularity pressed against my walls, his angry tearing,
I want you to choose something else,
and as every train pauses jokingly,
as every warm grasp and contrasted surrounding,
now, if only he could rip us out from our passive cells, I would be free from it again.

She spoke to me quietly, tones crawling through city blocks to the moon's whimpering light, and as she could feel the sound circling her,
she spoke to me, "I know," she whispered, "I know I've finally figured something out."
"Black holes are where God divided by zero."
"Shut up," I told her,
"you have awful insights."