A New Story For Both of Us

I wake up to
your face, serene and unprovoked,
remembering my dreams, numerous
yet all possible. We help ourselves
out of bed, conversing with the books
lining our shelves, lining our hearts.
We hold them close, hold each other,
and share the wonderful adventures
we went on this time. The sun shines
on our faces, the grass tickling our legs,
the air cleaner than we can remember
and gentler than grains of sand falling
slowly through the hourglass. We make the most
of ourselves and the time we have together,
we cherish each sight, returning and new,
and savor the strain of our legs as we
push ourselves to improve day after day.
Your art is renowned, but more importantly,
your heart can be found in each fragment
of your world. We enjoy the fruits of
the journey, knowing it was the prize
rather than the means. My art is seen
by me, and each day I see to it that
every character is as palpable as
ourselves. The once-dormant streams
of consiousness have become a rushing river,
and my art is used to heal rather than
appropriated to attack and ail.
When your arms embrace me from above
as I watch my programs work with pride,
I remember how distant it was that I was
stuck in the tar of an absent mind.
But there is little point in lamenting
when such time could be spent loving
the world we built together and loving
you.