They Are Beautiful

They are beautiful.
the way he looks at her,
like he can’t believe she sits there,
real, and raw, and regal before him.
He grips her hand like a lifeline,
and she traces her fingers down his arm
like a map back to shore.
They keep inching toward each other,
entangling further and further across the table,
hearts barely held apart by separate bodies.
He is her world,
and she is the universe through which he spins,
madly, wildly, flying,
but tethered in orbit
by the assurance of her hold.
They exist in their own space,
rolling through the void,
infinitesimal as dust, immense as galaxies,
and they are beautiful.

– s. Clark