Love is not counted
In years, but measured
By the moments that glance
Against a man's soul;
Making it quiver and quicken,
Like a butterfly's new wings,
In the early summer sun.
The touch of your fingertips
Would carry me a season;
The lightest brush of your lips
Would be reason enough
To lay aside my fears,
And sell my life, to be with you,
For the briefest breath of Time.
