The lovers

This is not what they mean
when they say "die for love", or "burnt by fire",
more stem a rising flood that reaches high
up to the chin, but does not let one die
or drown desire.

This is what’s written as in secret ink.
When held up it will spell their words in lower tune
and make a mark for walks more firmly in the dusk
and in the dark, facing their ghosts,
the whisperers of gloom.

They need no bed for feeling intimate,
just looking at an eye’s glint and a lip
that only arches slightly, with a hint of strength
and does not need a handle there to grip.

This is why they hold on
when they fear things to drop or time runs out,
but play a waiting game, where both will pass
the ball like players up unto the end
when one’s without.

This is why they’re so quiet
when they look at defeat and words have gone.
It is the way their eyes are holding on
to each other’s image, unchanged and complete,
till lines are drawn.