Seconds Between Blueprints

I loved her to the point of invention, to the point where logic bent like steam pipes in summer,

where equations blurred and the hourglass on my desk no longer measured minutes

but the curve of her voice, the weight of her sighs,

grains of gold falling not downward but sideways,

as if time itself had agreed to be rearranged for her.

She wore feathers in her goggles,

laughed like wind through gears,

left lipstick on beakers and fingerprints on my thoughts,

and I followed, wide-eyed and burning,

into a world of copper and mosaic, where goblets hummed with electricity

and lockboxes whispered secrets if held the right way in the dark.

We made love behind equations,

kissed between drafts of blueprints,

and drank seconds from stolen goblets as the masters lectured,

never noticing our glances darting like clockwork birds

trapped behind polished brass ribs.

She told me nothing lasts, not even machines,

but still I soldered time for her,

bolted my name into her inventions,

and buried the key inside a box she left on my table

the day she vanished into smoke and ticking silence.