I just need five more minutes to look at you

"Je t'aime"
I can't find those five minutes.
I know I just had them, they were all over my walls somewhere.
I can hear their details unfold years of fabric.
We use it for costuming on the holidays,
like the birthday I kissed your comic book mask.
I get these sensational indentations
opening the doorway to a set and setting
the sunset sister of aurora bourealis
where I drink pastels and needle my compass
as it points and laughs at my exposed atrium.
Low and behold I walk on broken glass
as it hollows a sculpture of my tendons
and mitriculates in my marrow.
I mourn this nightmare through sunglasses after our sun sets
so no one can see I'm blinded
by and by golden suspensions of evening
that relieve the horizon of winning and losing
as it opens wide and swallows the fear
shading my unhinged devotion.
Exile boils us down to distilled sand as we leak up an hour glass,
the metronome encasing this circus
that follows our outsides inside
along the small of her waste
to the foyer furnished in edwardian ground scores
where we sit neatly balanced between clowns and beasts,
giving us just the perfect view of the daisy field tattooed on your arms
gift wrapping my peaces in the isolation I fell upon,
a porthole to those five minutes
when I said "Je t'aime"
I say it again, but this time I laugh and pretend my words are but spiders in a vaccum,
wayward amputees, dandy lion seeds.
I found those five minutes where I used to keep my insides
in a heap on center stage.
Now we may continue with our main event, the side show.
I am that Persephone that kidnapped Hades from his own hell,
he's draped on his checkered kitchen table that stands planted in the daisies,
a podium from which we breath heavy invitations to dream
five minutes in our infinite hour,
before it buckles below a tired sky stretched across one sound,
Je T'aime.