Years

The walk we took along the beach last night: when it was strangely cold for August, and we agreed how beautiful the island is and how we have woven our childhood into the latticework of the stars (and how frail memory is, like glass). Every night, we are just waiting for rain to fall from the twilight, the air to cover us with regret. Clusters of white lilacs fall like the voids within you. (And we know that we are separate from the love we feel.) And you tell me that this is a golden age.