He held her under obsidian skies
as they counted non-lights,
stars peeking from clouds
those white sheets parting for them that night
and relocating to rest
and blanketing upon old city lights.
When wishes shot across the night
she'd squeal with delight
and have nothing to wish for
and he was too busy staring at her wonder –
their lakeside pushed out music
and pulled all of the lies under.
He whispered, "I don't love you."
she smiled out a, "You, too."
but they intertwined their hands
and their fingers, veins, pulsated a story -
but between verses and script
we knew then this was something more.