Avenue D Minaret

A steady chorus of rain drums the window like a call to worship. 
 
At midnight, on a bed thirteen floors up, I watch you make playthings of the subconscious. 
 
We chant with eager lips the songs our ancestors taught us, linked beneath the roof like stars trapped in an abacus. 
 
I struggle to catch my trembling breath, while your eyes study my geometry. 
 
The future is the past and the present is a slow leak in the ceiling, dripping disapproval in an aluminum pot.
 
This is the time we should be planning for the end of our mediocrity, owning houses together, increasing bottom lines, getting up, studying more, perhaps considering veganism. 
 
At midnight, I detect the distinct lure of silk beneath your jawline, beckoning right now romance in the half light. 
 
You watch me move my head slowly, searching the inches between us for universes long past.  
 
You find me there. 
 
The cracks in the ceiling are maps to the rainforests.
 
We obey the only history that matters. 
 
We kiss for centuries. 
 
The rain is sounding an Avenue D Love Supreme, a minaret torch song, playing prayers from the window with ancient angels, soaked to bone.