The last best time.
My favourite lights nestle between needle and twine. Nervous illuminations of amber melancholy, they flicker mechanically, current to pole, faux flame and all, some mystery chemistry hand wrought. All around, a star flurry of nostalgia. Tinsel reflections bouncing off your eyes, that too-rare soft smile, a yellowredgreen silence to the room. Underneath, the boxes of dreams are all bundled, bowed, asleep. Rip-ready, they are just wishes tonight. Like you were once, like we were to each other. Up on the mantle, cardboard thoughts gather, empty book covers, a hurried scrawl or two, no match for the cursive above. Prehistoric Tweets of vacant love, an outreach obligation, sealed and thrown down a hole. This is the depth of our lives. A harried accounting of connections and histories, an embarrassment of silences. Of these pecks, no nourishment, no harvest.
We believed in all this, this story unbelievable. Sleepless and faithful, marveling at the possibility. In the morning , the purest joy of anticipation. A place achieved, despite the longest of nights. No excitement ever richer. Squinting at strange contours through the glass doors. An amber glaze the last wrapper to be slid open. Behind it, mysterious colors and curves, things new, never imagined, but instantly the best ever. A chair, a bike, a clock and a ball. The last best time.