We came into being as two cataclysms of
four imperfect beings.
Solid forms of stardust with arms and legs and
minds that would one day revolve around each other,
but not too soon,
and not before their time.
Born on a Thursday,
you had your winding path to follow,
did you not?
Stumbling toward that blinding light.
And I had mine, with more curves and dead ends;
a Gregorian beginning, so they say.
Twenty-two sun revolutions
crashed into twenty-four
on the day of Saturn,
never
to part again
in the land of the living.
We have since felt the slow melding of souls
as the moon has circled us 117 times,
watching and loving us as we have watched and loved her;
four orbs beaming toward one,
silently knowing she will be watching us
for longer than we will ever watch her.
For someday
you and I will be dust again,
and the moon will be our only witness.
She will watch us disintegrate,
one after the other,
And she will know what no one else knows:
Though we will no longer see or hear or taste or smell,
or even feel,
The particles that once made up our arms and legs and minds
will one day revolve around each other,
but not too soon,
and not before their time.
