My Lasting Minutes

In blackest night beneath the ancient curse,
two broken hearts move close against the worst.
The garden lies far off, the fruit long gone,
yet still in man that hunger lingers on.

Her love calls out like water under stone,
his fire replies from wounds long borne alone.
In one embrace they raise, through flesh and breath,
a secret Eden wrestled back from death.

The night becomes their garden once again,
their touch the tree that heals forgotten pain.
Their lips become the answer lost through years,
their thirst runs deep through longing, ash, and tears.

They drink each other in like souls half-starved,
as wanderers who find what fate had carved.
And for one breath the world forgets its ache,
as though the dream had never had to break.

Lost in each other’s arms, in skin and sigh,
the world grows still, and death itself walks by.
For love—though fractured, human, bruised and small—
still knows the road where once God’s light would fall.

But stars grow pale, and eastern skies burn red,
the morning comes with all that waits ahead.
And like the angel long ago assigned,
the flaming sword stands guard to draw the line.

They cling like fire that grips to weathered wood,
like souls who still remember what was good.
Afraid the dawn will steal their paradise,
afraid the world will tear what love made rise.

Yet in those final moments before day,
they hold to what no curse can take away.
Though dawn brings dust and labour, grief and fight,
their hands refuse surrender to the light.

Passion and sorrow mingle—wine and flame,
and Eden slips once more beyond their claim.
Yet something stays when first sunlight has shone—
that for one night two souls remembered this:
we were made
for more
than the Fall.