time passes

more slowly

when we are in motion

than when we are at rest:

in the lazing heat of the summer afternoon,

the pupil of your eye dilates

like some otherworldly sun,

in the diorama of our roving eyes;

If we are but masses sailing at different speeds,

love is like the final quanta of dying stars

sucking into themselves, into

the shadows of their old glory

in the ever expanding universe,

a pulse of light shrinking into the dark of its cocoon, recombining anew.