Of Things Meant To Be

As lovers walk hand in
hand placing their faiths on cerulean sunset counting
how much more would it take
to know the other if it was ever the intent 
or are they casually winding up while membranes of their skin touch the other's sweat
or dependency a name for conversation or a 
diary you relate your whispers to
about how she busted the right chance and he
knew more about the farces of freedom
or do they need a mirror to taste the cutlery clinking as darkness engulfs
the space the ways the face
all but the wine glass 

you forget all that is necessary
but they remember the dates.

Or is that a scribble you watch closely every instance 
of  falling patterns to remind that
you are probably sane when the ships have
left the stations and doctors have called you clean 
and lights have silenced creation
and in the all pervading sickness, silence is the only voice that sings.