Carvings

Carvings

Here is the rain-eaten picnic table where
we carved our names. You carved yours
and I, mine. While I cut, you told me
that forever, as long as gravity rained
drops on wood, for that long your true
love would continue, eroding things
that were neither you nor I. Seasons
would cease to divide years before
the half of your love would trace a
circuit of a quarter of the heavens.
One-tenth of what either of us felt
would cease to matter at all were
we to remember but this minute.
But I have remembered. And I
am rubbing my hands across
your promise, which clouds
have eaten so thoughtless.
Your name lingers, mine
is less carved now, and
chipped. I sit here and
wonder. Where are you
today? And how did
we believe that time
so favored us that
we’d be exempt
from what all
lovers’ tables
have known
since knives
were held
in lovers’
hands?

© Ciprianowords Inc. 2008