Marbalized Timeshots

Stop.

Snapshot.

Close-up
close up,
our fingers linked
on cold December afternoons,
your thumb hugging mine,
warming mine,
loving mine.

Youth-taught,
life-cropped.

Crop out everything but us.

The world,
all the words we've ever heard,
none of them matter here.

With you,
with me,
with our hearts molding into one.

The shot is done.

Frame it,
hang it,
name it after our sculpted hands.

The world demands
we move on and forget,
but this moment,
this picture,
our love
demands we let our marble-hands live.