we were such a storm,
for being simply seventeen;
we were young and we were younger
(but so sincere under skies of summer,
under clouds of winter and
leaves of fall.
falling through the rainbows, you,
leaving for the spring.
the body is fragile
in a silent home we speak,
fumbling for the words we mean to utter,
stuttering logic into a new philosophy.
we share ideas;
i think you do too but it is not the time to find out.
but i know it is not the true descent:
that which will arrive
when we are both above enough
to require a cushioned landing