What We Are

Ask me what we are.
Your voice, clear as day, 
Although cognisant of my love for you, 
Never fails to humour me. 
"So, what are we?" You ask.
You and I are, above all else–
Partners.
We are thieves, bred to rob
The world of its monotony; 
At times I think perhaps of its filth–
Of its greed and war
And in its place fill it with love, flowers, poetry–
With the opposite of war itself.
We may never be great people, 
A lot of the time we are hardly good people, 
And our crimes as partners 
Will be punishable only by
The universe.
We are artists; writers, painters, actors–
You know, the like.
In a world filled with consumers and destroyers
And creators who fled
You and I are the last of a kind; 
A dying breed. 
"We are something rare and archaic to our time
But still new and alien to ourselves.
We are but fragments of fiction in a half forgotten dream
In the mind of a modern lover," you say.
We are the last of the creators; 
My love, you and I are the last of creation.
We are vagabonds–had been peddlers and hitchhikers, 
To be travelers    .
Somewhere along our journey in orange
Perhaps we shall be lost to history and time itself
Amongst bubbled up skies and ballrooms lit in liquid gold; 
Or perhaps we'll find ourselves
In our words which, more often than not, 
Will be rendered meaningless
By our paper-pleated hearts, 
And the warmth and radiance of a sunset shared, 
Rendered the same
By you.
You and I will be the artist
And the art–
The poet and the poem,
The creator
And the created;
You will be my muse
And I will be yours,
And you and I, above all else,
Will be the fondest of lovers.

You and I, 
Will be love.