My Lighting Friend

One cup of eternal life
sipped through your straw and mine.

Once shared. Once idolized at our time,
chest to chest, arms entangled in a tighter embrace,
tongues playing jokes with sensitive ears until the auditory cortex at the ridge of mind tingles
and the wet mirror we look across warms for the fall into the surface
into the mirage of the other.

It's not so cold in the fantasy.
Deep lines in the palms touch, congratulation for our wills to survive
into these spaces smitten between times.

I can reach that level
to where we're all a portrait mesh of wondered souls.

Your hair strains curl in my hand
as we're sitting seeing with our third eyes that this calm ought happen again.
And my feeling trickles down your neck
while the fingertips dance.

Then torn apart.
The water cools and we see each other through a sea of glass.
It freezes. We knock. We talk. But it's hard to hear,
the portrait ripped,
the chests split.
And the whispers gone with the shadows.

I feel cold. My fingertips are stiff.
My hand doesn't twhirl.
Your locks don't swhirl
beneath my petting.

We are far, far away.
And my soul that throbs when you're nearby
loses pulse.