Nicholas Salvatore met Elizabeth Galloway at a bar in the middle of nowhere west Texas on July 14, 1943.
Silently dancing over her toes, her flaxen hair
Traversed through imperceptibly by the breeze
Coming off of the waves
With an insignificant effort she culls the
Warmth of the horizon and fills her heart full.
Although she has no reason to believe
She was ever here before,
Each grain of sand brings with it the comfort
Of carefree days long lost in noisy dance halls.
Time here becomes not something to live by
But something to mock and belittle.
She sits, face to face with time,
Both of them powerless,
Both of them content.