The others have yet to be written

I

A quickening pulse upon my lips

Accompanies hands whom awaken before dawn

In a tired act revived to its original splendor.

The sun has come to retire the moon,

Entwined in a new days beginning.

II

Every poet is a thief

How many lines must I steal in admiration before I take your attention?

The hands of time are no longer spinning incessantly;

They’re tugging at your heartstrings adoringly

As your mind works out a conundrum

Of grace before passion.

III

In the warmth of her smile

In the cold of uncertainty

I kneel unarmed and unmoved before a wall fortified in haste.

Kiss me again as I camp under stars and daylight

Awaiting arid mortar.