A Quiet Manifesto

Are these the moments
that we look back on,
weary with age?

Of the growing nerves,
of the sleepless nights
filled with thoughts
and scenes that star only you and me?

To talk without words
yet I still hear your
voice within the rooms
of my mind, when nary
a sentence from
you to me has been seen.

Will these be the days
that I look down on,
high from age?

Oh dear, hold me
close to these moments
of unimagined, uninhibited
bliss that your written
words once sent cause
yet.

Of counting down the days
which turn down into hours
before I can see your form
once more.

But with the hopes
and highs, the lows
naturally match.

A quiet manifesto
of me following you.
A quiet manifesto
of lovers’ parts
and how they play.

Of turns and falls
when fear to fall
is at the forefront
of the heart –
whether the play will
continue or stall
is yet unknown.

But for now the feeling
is known from at least
one part who owns a guarded heart,
that I want this quiet manifesto
of falls and turns,
of parts and plays,
of matching paces and winding days,
that this play marches on.

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