There Are Times...

There are times
between the ragged, stiff denials
of love and longing;
Times between the resolutions
not to bind, not to need;
when they lose themselves in dreams.

In juvenile dreams of landscapes,
of fingers entwined in hair;
of fights, of kisses, of silence
as the wind calls their names;
of the music of the twilight
weaved in softly fading strains.

There are times
between the dying moon and stillborn sun
when the lampless dark lies heavy:
only then they are equal.
Open. Trusting. Vulnerable.
Those times are few and far between.

The dawn breaks coldly
upon two not-quite-children
(much too old for dreams)
flicking each other away
like the specks of cigarette ash
on the pavement at their feet.