Still.

For this desire to someday be accommodated, we shall sit in front of the fire, lodge chairs at angles akin to talking low, honey cognac thick, whispers even thicker, and you will tell me life. From the moment your memory begins you will unravel the senses in dark licorice words by crackling light. We will throw lithium on the fire and watch the shadows turn red in our laughter ...just children, really, despite our age... The night will wane as good nights always do, and we'll sleep on and off in the chairs, in the midst of the other's story. It won't matter, as it all becomes a dream anyway and we'll never tend the fire till it gives up it's coal. At 5 am our voices will be hoarse and our legs will be angry at us for pretzeling them, so we will rise to make strong coffee. You, grinding powder brown beans, and me finding two perfect cups for hand holding, brushing past you electric in the process. After the brew, after our lives have been told, at the precise red photograph of sunrise, we will sleep. My head will fall sullen on your shoulder, angry at my inability to control my eyes to stay with you a moment more, and this new world, which has spun at twice it's normal speed since meeting you, will suddenly, finally, be still.