(noun) the temporary disregarding of strict tempo to allow an expressive quickening or slackening, usually without altering the overall pace; Italian for stolen time
You still feel like a California Screamin launch in the middle of a pink, try to breathe in but forget to, SoCal sunset. I'm still dole whipped and even my turkey leg is weak kneed. Your Tower of Terror sends me plummeting from the eighth, sixteenth, thirty-second thousandth story, but such unearthly acceleration makes me wonder when our rubato roller coaster will have to make up for all this stolen time. A laugh here, a morning there- to steal one with you is the sweetest crime of two churros and six beignets that make my eight sticky fingers- my sticky, kleptomaniac fingers- loot all the hands of every grandfather, mechanical, and quartz. I bend seconds to hours cause they should be ours, just for now or, maybe forever. Just long enough for me to die in the fire of your life-inspiring touch. Just long enough for me to bathe in the cool waters of your scent. Just long enough for me to drown out the cacophony of voices in my head. Because, love, I'm weary of the day when these voices will start lining up as we're slowing down. I don't think this last fast pass works for anyone but you. Our sweet nectar meets a sweet nocturne at the start of a tempo and that's when the single riders lane might be the only way to keep up.
