Here we stand on the brink of the precipice 

awaiting – what? A star in the East? 

some other portent? No matter. We wait. 

I touch you, my hand piercing 

the layers of dermis and epidermis 

to brush the pulsing muscle 

that beats the time to your dance. 

It throbs against my palm, 

warm and vital, thrilling to my touch. 

I want to sing. 

As if in defense, you clutch at my shadow 

refusing to let go, a child holding 

a treasured possession. 

On the edge of the cliff 

we stare at the yawning chasm, hushed, 

keening for the music of the spheres.