It's not a death rattling coda,
although it's filled with some remorse,
nor is it moderate mid-life crisis, a fugal, miserable theme we hum
(while chopping onions midnight naked, upon a dirty cutting board);
It's just the crown of realisations
that each overture of expectations grows up with you
but shrinks with age
to only a handful,
ticking,
ambrosial moments
―and those we seek and hunt; on those we prey―
(those palate-burning, soul-elating metronome beats):
The sound of water in night-time swims
(under a starless, moonlit sky)
A single or a few intertwining voices
(in a harmonious embrace)
The fumbling counterpointillism
(of when our bodies touched).
