Swing Me to the Moon
He checks the watch-face for the five hundred and fifty seventh time. He’s missed his bus, but he couldn’t catch his breath. She is cold stone, her eyes glisten yesteryear.
“Is this the end of the story,” he muses, soft symphony.
“It questions the start but wraps up nicely, I think,” she replies.
“Do we go on or stay put?”
“Everything goes on. Besides, I’d rather not stay here. We’ve been on this page far too long, I fear I’ve memorized every word in every passage.”
Too familiar, he thinks, mentally succumbs, drinks the tea in his hand and invites her to dance a moment as he steps in time to the dead man’s heartbeat.
Take care, they remind themselves as they glide graceful in the stilted lights, if you stand with your hands held open, palms up, simply waiting, you might never grasp the moon.