Upon the night's curve of your back I conduct a symphony, a crescendo clutching tightly to our union, like a coupling of train cars comprised of deep kisses, truth rumbling their echo. She and I grip the tracks that lay next to one another, like two animals entangled, waiting on the whistle to shake them free, yet, somehow, we glimpse one another, our arms acting as brakes holding us upright many years from now. Isn't this our vow, to have and to hold, until something gives way? We are the trestle of a bridge that beckons us to remain upright, sweat covering the bright steel like a mist blanketing the rising sun. Now, she urgently whispers, now! © 2016 Mark Richard Prime
(The Weaver's Song)