The love we have together is like a crippled whirligig spinning in the dark. On the threshold, small men stare at it like it's a tornado, and they hope it won't cripple their trembling houses perched on the staircase: their fields, dry and spindly spieders' legs, will die soon from lack of rain.
Above them, we become Anteros and watch their worry become our worry as the tornado grows. As it begins to climb the stairs to our bedroom, we hold each other on the spindly bed, we look for lost time or lost loves as the storm crosses the threshold. We close our eyes. And time falls apart in the dark.