There is a drift in the machinery, a part of all this speech that stays unsettled, the unspoken words always winning the day. There is a power in the unsaid to wreck and rile, the license for the disquiet stirring behind the eyes. She sees it all and says little. He talk and talks until the meaning goes away. Love lives within them, awake and alive. It is warm and bright and has their number. Love will not bankroll their hearts' great hopes. The drift will have its say.
They move past the sweet in the sorrow. They take apart their piecework clock. They each sing such very different songs. His love conquers all, her sad future history. He is right, she is right, and so their path it parts. Tears flow and words fail, and the world keeps moving on. He is standing still and she is pounding her beat. Streets and stars and shared beds. Mementos, and love letters, and the detritus of the all fall down.
He clings to her skin, he lingers upon her breathing. She skips and sulks, his words never quite syncing up with his fleshly heir. He is thinking bliss and babies, the fundament of the blood. She is thinking burdens and bones, his inheritance of ruin. The music falls in step with heartbeat and footfall. The seance of thought, the graveyard of memory. The calendar finds the slipstream, the machine kicked into gear. There will be words and acts and refutation. He aches for the unlikely resolution. She imagines no outcome, only the ghosts that haunt her heart. The love goes on, with or without them.
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